See, how rude win­ter’s icy hand
Has stripped the trees, and sealed the ground!
But spring shall soon his rage with­stand,
And spread new beau­ties all around.

My soul a sharp­er win­ter mourns,
Barren and fruit­less I re­main;
When will the gen­tle spring re­turn,
And bid my grac­es grow again?

Jesus, my glo­ri­ous sun, arise!
’Tis Thine the froz­en heart to move;
Oh! hush these storms and clear my skies,
And let me feel Thy vi­tal love!

Dear Lord, re­gard my fee­ble cry,
I faint and droop till Thou ap­pear;
Wilt thou permit Thy plant to die?
Must it be win­ter all the year?

Be still, my soul, and wait His hour,
With hum­ble pray­er, and pa­tient faith;
Till He re­veals His gra­cious pow­er,
Repose on what His pro­mise saith.

He, by whose all com­mand­ing word,
Seasons this chang­ing course main­tain;
In ev­ery change a pledge af­fords,
That none shall seek His face in vain.