John Newton 8,8,8,8 Winter [20] See, how rude winter's icy hand Has stripped the trees, and sealed the ground! But spring shall soon his rage withstand, And spread new beauties all around. My soul, a sharper winter mourns, Barren and fruitless I remain; When will the gentle spring return, And bid my graces grow again? Jesus, my glorious Sun arise! 'Tis thine, the frozen heart to move O hush these storms and clear my skies, And let me feel thy vital love! Dear Lord, regard my feeble cry, I faint and droop till thou appear; Wilt thou permit thy plant to die? Must it be winter all the year? Be still, my soul, and wait his hour, With humble prayer, and patient faith; Till he reveals his gracious pow'r, Repose on what his promise faith. He, by whose all-commanding word, Seasons this changing course maintain; In every change a pledge affords, That none shall seek his face in vain. Footnotes: [20] See also Book 3, Hymn 31 |