Littell's Living Age/Volume 132/Issue 1704/A Song in the Night


I take this pain, Lord Jesus,
From thine own hand;
The strength to bare it bravely
Thou wilt command.
I am too weak for effort,
So let me rest,
In hush of sweet submission,
On thine own breast.

I take this pain, Lord Jesus,
As proof indeed
That thou art watching closely
My truest need;
That thou, my Good Physician,
Art working still;
That all thine own good pleasure
Thou wilt fulfil.

I take this pain, Lord Jesus!
What thou dost choose,
The soul that really loves thee
Will not refuse.
It is not for the first time
I trust to-day!
For thee my heart hath never
A trustless "Nay!"

I take this pain, Lord Jesus!
But what beside?
'Tis no unmingled portion
Thou dost provide.
In every hour of faintness,
My cup runs o'er
With faithfulness and mercy,
And love's sweet store.

I take this pain, Lord Jesus,
As thine own gift,
And true though tremulous praises
I now uplift.
I am too weak to sing them,
But thou dost hear
The whisper from the pillow, —
Thou art so near!

'Tis thy dear hand, O Saviour,
That presseth sore,
The hand that bears the nail-prints
And now beneath its shadow,
Hidden by thee,
The pressure only tells me
Thou lovest me!

Frances Ridley Havergal.