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, My God,
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.