Dear Refuge of My Weary Soul
Dear refuge of my weary soul,
On Thee, when sorrows rise;
On Thee, when waves of trouble roll,
My fainting hope relies.
While hope revives, though pressed with fear
And I can say,
Beneath Thy feet I spread my cares,
And pour my woes abroad.
To Thee I tell each rising grief,
For Thou alone canst heal;
Thy Word can bring a sweet relief
For every pain I feel.
But oh! when gloomy doubts prevail,
I fear to call Thee mine;
The springs of comfort seem to fail,
And all my hopes decline.
Yet, gracious God, where shall I flee?
Thou art my only trust,
And still my soul would cleave to Thee,
Though prostrate in the dust.
Hast Thou not bid me seek Thy face?
And shall I seek in vain?
And can the ear of sovereign grace
Be deaf when I complain?
No, still the ear of sovereign grace
Attends the mourner’s prayer;
O access may I ever find,
To breathe my sorrows there.
Thy mercy seat is open still;
Here let my soul retreat,
With humble hope attend Thy will,
And wait beneath Thy feet.
Words: Anne Steele, 1716-1778.