Monday, September 18, 2017

Though mountains crumble into dust, Thy covenant standeth fast

Image result for sunset

And he said unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? 
Then He arose and rebuked the winds and the sea, 
and there was a great calm.  Matt. 8:26

My god, lo, here before Thy face
I cast me in the dust;
Where is the hope of happier days,
Where is my wonted trust?

Where are the sunny hours I had
Ere of Thy light bereft?
Vanished is all that made me glad,
My pain alone is left.

I shrink with fear and sore alarm
When threatening ills I see,
As though in time of need Thine arm
No more could shelter me;

As though Thou couldst not see the grief
That makes my courage quail,
As thou Thou wouldst not send relief,
When human helpers fail.

Cannot Thy might avert e'en now
What seems my certain doom,
And still with light and succour bow
To him who weeps in gloom?

Art Thou not evermore the same?
And hast not Thou revealed
That Thou wilt be our strength, Thy Name
Our tower of hope, our shield?

O Father, compass me about
With love, for I am weak;
Forgive, forgive my sinful doubt,
Thy pitying glance I seek;

For torn and anguished is my heart,
Thou seest it, my God,
Oh soothe my conscience' bitter smart,
Lift off my sorrows' load.

I know that I am in Thy hands,
Whose thoughts are peace toward me,
That ever sure thy counsel stands,--
Could I but build on Thee!

I know that Thou wilt give me all
That Thou has promised, Lord,
Here will I cling, nor yield, nor fall,
I live but by Thy Word.

Though mountains crumble into dust,
Thy covenant standeth fast;
Who follows Thee in pious trust
Shall reach the goal at last.

Though strange and winding seem the way
While yet on earth I dwell,
In heaven my heart shall gladly say,
Thou, God, dost all things well!

Take courage then, my soul, nor steep
Thy days and nights in tears,
That soon shalt cease to mourn and weep,
Thou dark are now thy fears.

He comes, He comes, the Strong to save,
He comes nor tarries more,
His light is breaking o'er the wave,

The clouds and storms are o'er!

Hier lieg' ich, Herr, im Staube
Drewes. 1797.
trans. by Catherine Winkworth, 1855