A. L. Waring


MY heart is resting, O my God,

I will give thanks and sing:

My heart is at the secret source

Of every precious thing.

Oh, peace of God that passeth thought,

I daily, hourly sing,

My heart is at the secret source

Of every precious thing.


Now the frail vessel Thou hast made,

No hand but Thine shall fill;

The waters of the earth have failed,

And I am thirsty still.


I thirst for springs of heavenly life,

And here all day they rise;

I seek the treasure of Thy love,

And close at hand it lies.


And a new song is in my mouth,

To long-loved music set,

Glory to Thee for all the grace

I have not tasted yet.


I have a heritage of joy

That yet I must not see;

The hand that bled to make it mine

Is keeping it for me.


There is a certainty of love

That sets my heart at rest;

A calm assurance for today

That to be poor is best.


A prayer reposing on His truth,

Who hath made all things mine;

That draws my captive will to Him,

And makes it one with Thine.


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