I bow my fore­head to the dust,
I veil mine eyes for shame,
And urge, in trem­bling self dis­trust,
A pray­er with­out a claim.
No of­fer­ing of mine own I have,
Nor works my faith to prove;
I can but give the gifts He gave,
And plead His love for love.

I dim­ly guess, from bless­ings known,
Of great­er out of sight;
And, with the chast­ened psalm­ist, own
His judg­ments too are right.
And if my heart and flesh are weak
To bear an un­tried pain,
The bruis­éd reed He will not break,
But strength­en and sus­tain.

I know not what the fu­ture hath
Of mar­vel or sur­prise,
Assured alone that life and death
His mer­cy un­der­lies.
And so be­side the si­lent sea
I wait the muf­fled oar;
No harm from Him can come to me
On ocean or on shore.

I know not where His is­lands lift
Their frond­ed palms in air;
I on­ly know I can­not drift
Beyond His love and care;
And Thou, O Lord, by whom are seen
Thy crea­tures as they be,
Forgive me if too close I lean
My hu­man heart on Thee.