Wilt Thou, Oh my Father, leave me?
Still I'll bless thy holy will;
I may lose, but will not grieve Thee;
I will love Thee still.
Long and sharply dost Thou chide me;
I am filled with grief and shame;
But I have no joy beside Thee,
Loving still, the same.
Like the sun-flower, ever turning
Meekly to the skies its face;
Still my heart for Thee is burning,
Though Thou hid'st thy grace.
Thus my Father heard me praying;
Drawing near, once more He smiled;
Joyfully I heard Him saying,
Thou art still my child.
I did leave thee but to try thee;
Trying, I have found thee mine;
Now I always will be nigh thee;
All I have is thine.
Still I'll bless thy holy will;
I may lose, but will not grieve Thee;
I will love Thee still.
Long and sharply dost Thou chide me;
I am filled with grief and shame;
But I have no joy beside Thee,
Loving still, the same.
Like the sun-flower, ever turning
Meekly to the skies its face;
Still my heart for Thee is burning,
Though Thou hid'st thy grace.
Thus my Father heard me praying;
Drawing near, once more He smiled;
Joyfully I heard Him saying,
Thou art still my child.
I did leave thee but to try thee;
Trying, I have found thee mine;
Now I always will be nigh thee;
All I have is thine.
— American Cottage Life (1850).
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