But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart, God's plans, like lilies pure and white, unfold; We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart, Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. And if through patient toil we reach the land Where tired feet with sandals loosed may rest, When we shall clearly know and understand, I think that we will say: "God knew the best."
O why and whither? God knows all; I only know that he is good, And that whatever may befall, Or here or there, must be the best that could. For He is merciful as just; And so, by faith correcting sight, I bow before his will, and trust Howe'er they seem he doeth all things right.
I know not what shall befall me; God hangs a mist o'er my eyes, And thus each step of my onward path He makes new scenes to rise, And every joy he sends me comes As a sweet and glad surprise.
I see not a step before me As I tread on another year; But the past is in God's keeping, The future his mercy shall clear, And what looks dark in the distance May brighten as I draw near.
For perhaps the dreaded future Is less bitter than I think; The Lord may sweeten the waters Before I stoop to drink, Or, if Marah must be Marah, He will stand beside its brink.
It may be he keeps waiting Till the coming of my feet Some gift of such rare blessedness, Some joy so strangely sweet, That my lips shall only tremble With the thanks they cannot speak.
O restful, blissful ignorance! 'Tis blessed not to know, It stills me in those mighty arms Which will not let me go, And hushes my soul to rest On the bosom which loves me so!
So I go on not knowing; I would not if I might; I would rather walk in the dark with God Than go alone in the light; I would rather walk with him by faith, Than walk alone by sight.
My heart shrinks back from trials Which the future may disclose, Yet I never had a sorrow But what the dear Lord chose; So I send the coming tears back With the whispered word, "He knows."
"Trust is truer than our fears," Runs the legend through the moss; "Gain is not in added years, Nor in death is loss."
Fret not, poor soul; while doubt and fear Disturb thy breast, The pitying angels, who can see How vain thy wild regret must be, Say, "Trust and Rest."
Plan not, nor scheme, but calmly wait; His choice is best; While blind and erring is thy sight His wisdom sees and judges right; So Trust and Rest.