Laden with guilt, and full of fears,
I fly to Thee, my Lord,
And not a glimpse of hope ap­pears
But in Thy writ­ten Word.

The vol­ume of my Fa­ther’s grace
Does all my griefs as­suage;
Here I be­hold my Sav­ior’s face
Almost in ev­ery page.

This is the field where hid­den lies
The pearl of price un­known;
That mer­chant is di­vine­ly wise
Who makes the pearl his own.

Here con­se­crat­ed wa­ter flows
To quench my thirst of sin;
Here the fair tree of know­ledge grows,
Nor dan­ger dwells there­in.

This is the Judge that ends the strife
Where wit and rea­son fail,
My guide to ev­er­last­ing life
Through all this gloomy vale.

O may Thy coun­sels, migh­ty God,
My rov­ing feet com­mand;
Nor I for­sake the hap­py road
That leads to Thy right hand.