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“THE VOICE IS NIGH THEE”

“Where art thou, Lord?” we sometimes cry
From hearts with pain and anguish riven,
And wonder in our sorrow why
No answer comes from his far Heaven.
Filled with our grief, we do not know
That softly, gently, through our woe,
His voice is whispering tenderly,
“Lo, I that speak to thee am He.”

“Where art thou, Lord?” we sometimes say,
As clouds of unbelief and doubt
Sweep darkly o’er our onward way
And crowd his loving presence out.
We shrink back as they draw more near,
And, looking at them, do not hear
His voice still saying lovingly,
“Lo, I that speak to thee am He.”

“Where art thou, Lord?” we’ve sometimes said,
As error, all the wide world through,
Stalks onward with triumphant tread
And crushes down the just and true.
We catch the sound of strife and fear,
But, through the discord, do not hear
That sweet voice sounding steadily,
“Lo, I that speak to thee am He.”

“Where art thou, Lord?” we sometimes sigh,
From beds of weariness and pain,
The while his husbandmen go by
To gather in his fields of grain.
And longing with them forth to go,
We miss his gentle accents, low,
That through our pain would constantly
Say, “I that speak to thee am He.”

“Where art thou, Lord?” some glorious day
We’ll ask upon the heavenly shore,
As ‘mid the angel hosts we stray,
Our pilgrim journey safely o’er.
Our hearts will find no resting place
Until before his glorious face
The blessed words to us shall be,
“Lo, I that speak to thee am He.”—Selected.

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— January 1, 1892 —