Gerhard Ter Steegen

Heb. iv.10

Oft comes to me a blessed hour,

A wondrous hour and still --

With empty hands I lay me down,

No more to work or will.

An hour when weary thought has ceased,

The eyes are closed in rest;

And, hushed in Heaven's untroubled peace,

I lie upon Thy breast.

Erewile I reasoned of Thy truth,

I searched with toil and care;

From morn to night I tilled my field,

And yet my field was bare.

Now, fed with corn from fields of Heaven

The fruit of Hands Divine,

I pray no prayer, for all is given,

The Bread of God is mine.

There lie my books -- for all I sought

My heart possesses now.

The words are sweet that tell They love,

The love itself art Thou.

One line I read -- and then no more --

I close the book to see

No more the symbol and the sign,

But Christ revealed to me.

And thus my worship is, delight --

My work, to see His Face,

With folded hands and silent lips

Within His Holy place.

Thus oft to busy men I seem

A cumberer of the soil;

The dreamer of an empty dream,

Whilst others delve and toil.

O brothers! in these silent hours

God's miracles are wrought;

He giveth His beloved in sleep

A treasure all unsought.

I sit an infant at His feet

Where moments teach me more

Than all the toil, and all the books

Of all the ages hoar.

I sought the truth, and found but doubt --

I wandered far abroad;

I hail the truth already found

Within the heart of God.