FAITH."His way is in the whirlwind and the storm, and the clouds are the dust of His feet."
HE clouds may gather o'er my tent,The sun be shrouded from my sight,
The cold wind blow, the night-breeze sigh,
And oft obscure my heavenly light—
Still He is there.
The storm may darken round my head,
The rain may drench, the tempest beat,
And yet I read these clouds are but
The "dust" of my Redeemer's feet,—
And He is there.
The rain may drench, the tempest beat,
And yet I read these clouds are but
The "dust" of my Redeemer's feet,—
And He is there.
What matters it, the angry sky,
So He is shrouded in its gloom;
The lowering cloud that oft distils
In love upon my tented home,
If He is there?
So He is shrouded in its gloom;
The lowering cloud that oft distils
In love upon my tented home,
If He is there?
