Dear refuge of my weary soul,
On thee, when sorrows rise;
On thee, when waves of trouble roll,
My fainting Hope relies.
To thee, I tell each rising grief,
For thou alone canst heal;
Thy word can bring a sweet relief,
For ev’ry pain I feel.
But oh! when gloomy doubts prevail,
I fear to call thee mine;
The springs of comfort seem to fail,
And all my hopes decline.
Yet gracious God, where shall I flee?
Thou art my only trust,
And still my soul would cleave to thee,
Tho’ prostrate in the dust.
Hast thou not bid me seek thy face?
And shall I seek in vain?
And can the ear of sov’reign grace
Be deaf when I complain?
No, still the ear of sov’reign grace
Attends the mourner’s pray’r;
O may I ever find access,
To breathe my sorrows there.
Thy mercy-seat is open still;
Here let my soul retreat,
With humble hope attend thy will,
And wait beneath thy feet.
—Anne Steele, 1760
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