Gerhard Ter Steegen Is. xl.11 O God, a world of empty show, Dark wilds of restless, fruitless quest Lie round me wheresoe'er I go: Within, with Thee, is rest. And sated with the weary sum Of all men think, and hear, and see, O more than mother's heart, I come, A tired child to Thee. Sweet childhood of eternal life! Whilst troubled days and years go by, In stillness hushed from stir and strife, Within Thine Arms I lie. Thine Arms, to whom I turn and cling With thirsting soul that longs for Thee; As rain that makes the pastures sing, Art Thou, my God, to me. |