THE MINISTRY OF PAIN.
Cease, my complaining spirit, cease;
Know 'tis a Father's hand you feel;
It leads you to the realms of peace;
It kindly only wounds to heal.
Know 'tis a Father's hand you feel;
It leads you to the realms of peace;
It kindly only wounds to heal.
My Father, what a holy joy
Bursts on the sad, desponding mind,
To say when fiercest ills annoy,
I know my Father still is kind.
Bursts on the sad, desponding mind,
To say when fiercest ills annoy,
I know my Father still is kind.
This bids each trembling fear be still,
Checks every murmur, every sigh:
Patience then waits his sovereign will,
Rejoiced to live—resigned to die.
Checks every murmur, every sigh:
Patience then waits his sovereign will,
Rejoiced to live—resigned to die.
O blessed ministry of pain,
To teach the soul its real worth;
To lead it to that source again,
From whence it first derived its birth.
To teach the soul its real worth;
To lead it to that source again,
From whence it first derived its birth.
