Thou art my peace—I lift mine eyes to Thee;
I see Thee bleeding, dying on the tree;
I hear Thy mournful cry, ’Twas all for me—
Thou art my peace.

Thou art my peace—I lay my trembling hand
Upon Thy bless­èd cross, and fear­less stand
Amidst the darkness of this weary land—
Thou art my peace.

Thou art my peace—Thy face I cannot see;
My faith ebbs low—troubled my heart may be;
My life is sure—’tis hid in God with Thee—
Thou art my peace.

Thou art my peace—tho’ heart and hand may fail;
Tho’ storm and rain and angry strife pre­vail,
My hope is sure an­chored with­in the veil—
Thou art my peace.

Thou art my peace—a while, a lit­tle while,
Of wandering here; tho’ many an earth­ly wile
May draw me back, and hold me from Thy smile—
Thou art my peace.

Thou art my peace—Thou wilt not change to me.
Oh, make me ev­er clos­er cling to Thee,
Until that hour when I Thy face shall see—
Thou art my peace.

Florence Armstrong
The King in His Beau­ty, 1875