1 Although the vine its fruit deny,
The budding fig-tree droop and die,
No oil the olive yield;
Yet will I trust me in my God,
Yea, bend rejoicing to His rod,
And by His grace be heal'd.
2 Though fields, in verdure once array'd,
By whirlwinds desolate be laid,
Or parch'd by scorching beam;
Still in the Lord shall be my trust,
My joy; for, though His frown is just,
His mercy is supreme.
3 Though from the folds the flock decay,
Though herds lie famish'd o'er the lea,
And round the empty stall;
My soul above the wreck shall rise,
Its better joys are in the skies;
There God is all in all.
4 In God my strength, howe'er distrest,
I yet will hope, and calmly rest,
Nay, triumph in His love:
My lingering soul, my tardy feet,
Free as the hind He makes, and fleet,
To speed my course above.
|First Line:||Although the vine its fruit deny|
|Topic:||The Christian Life: Trust|