When, dear­est Lord, when shall it be
That I shall find my all in Thee,
The full­ness of Thy pro­mise prove,
The seal of Thine eter­nal love?

A poor, blind child I wan­der here,
If hap­ly I may feel Thee near:
O dark, dark, dark, I still must say,
Amid the blaze of Gos­pel day.

Thee, on­ly Thee, I fain would I find,
I cast the world and flesh be­hind;
Thou, on­ly Thou, to me be giv’n,
And all Thou hast in earth or Heav’n.

All earth­ly com­forts I dis­dain,
They shall not rob me of my pain,
Or make me sense­less of my load,
Or less dis­con­so­late for God.

Rather, let all the crea­tures take
Their mi­se­ra­ble com­forts back,
With ev­ery vain re­lief de­part,
And leave me to my brok­en heart.

Leave me, my friends, the mourn­er leave,
For God, and not for you I grieve;
My weak­ness, O ye strong, des­pise,
My fool­ish ig­norance, ye wise.

Let all my Fa­ther’s child­ren be
Still ang­ry, still dis­pleased with me,
Disclaim, dis­honor, and dis­own:
I would be poor, for­lorn, alone.

A child, a fool, a thing of naught,
Abhorred, ne­glect­ed, and for­got,
Contemned, aban­don­ed, and dis­tressed
Till I from mor­tal man have ceased.

When from the arm of flesh set free,
Jesu, my soul shall fly to Thee:
Jesu, when I have lost my all,
My soul shall on Thy bo­som fall.

When man for­sakes, Thou wilt not leave,
Ready the out­casts to re­ceive,
Thou all my sim­ple­ness I own,
And all my faults to Thee are known.

Ah! where­fore did I ev­er doubt?
Thou wilt in no wise cast me out,
A help­less soul that comes to Thee,
With on­ly sin and mi­se­ry.

Lord, I am sick; My sick­ness cure;
I want; Do Thou en­rich the poor:
Under Thy migh­ty hand I stoop,
O lift the ab­ject sin­ner up!

Lord, I am blind; be Thou my sight;
Lord, I am weak; be Thou my might;
A help­er of the help­less be,
And let me find my all in Thee!