Death can never kill us even, But relief From all grief To us then is given. It doth close life's mournful story, Make a way That we may Pass to heav'nly glory.
There I'll reap enduring pleasure, After woe Here below Suffer'd in large measure. Lasting good we find here never, All the earth Deemeth worth Vanisheth for ever.
What is all this life possesseth? But a hand Fall of sand That the heart distresseth. Noble gifts that pall me never, Christ so free There gives me To enjoy for ever.
Shepherd! Lord! joy's fountain ever, Thou art mine, I am Thine, No one can us sever. I am Thine, because Thou gavest Life and blood For my good, By Thy death me savest.
Thou'rt mine, for I love and own Thee, Ne'er shall I, Light of joy, From my heart dethrone Thee. Let me, let me soon behold Thee Face to face, Thy embrace May it soon enfold me!
I into God's own heart and mind My heart and mind deliver, What evil seems, a gain I find, E'en death is life for ever. I am His son, Who spread the throne Of heaven high above me. Tho' I bend low Beneath His blow, Yet still His heart doth love me.
He ne'er can prove untrue to me, My Father aye must love me, And tho' He cast me in the sea, He only thus would prove me; In what He good Doth count, He would My heart establish ever. And if I stand, His mighty hand Will raise me, and deliver.
Vain had my own pow'r ever been, To have adorn'd or made me; In soul and body God is seen, He form'd and He array'd me, Plac'd mind and wit On the soul's seat, And flesh and bones did give me. Who thus so free Supplieth me Can ne'er mean to deceive me.
Say, where a place to lay my head, On earth had I attainèd? Long since had I been cold and dead Had God not me sustainèd With His strong arm, That ever warm, And glad and healthy maketh. Whom He gives joy May praise employ, What He leaves, falls and breaketh.
Wisdom and understanding true In Him are ever dwelling; Time, place, to leave undone or do, He knoweth, never failing. He ever knows When joys, when woes, Are best for those He loveth. What He doth here-- Tho' it appear Ill--to be good aye proveth.
Thou think'st indeed, if thou hast not What flesh and blood is yearning To have, that trial mars thy lot, Thy light to darkness turning. Of toil and care Thou hast large share, Ere thou thy wish attainest, And dost not see Whatever thee Befals, thereby thou gainest.