Sunday Hymn: Dear Refuge of My Weary Soul

Dear re­fuge of my wea­ry soul,
On Thee, when sor­rows rise;
On Thee, when waves of trou­ble roll,
My faint­ing hope re­lies.

While hope re­vives, though pressed with fear
And I can say, My God,
Beneath Thy feet I spread my cares,
And pour my woes abroad.

To Thee I tell each ris­ing grief,
For Thou alone canst heal;
Thy Word can bring a sweet re­lief
For ev­ery pain I feel.

But oh! when gloomy doubts pre­vail,
I fear to call Thee mine;
The springs of com­fort seem to fail,
And all my hopes de­cline.

Yet, gra­cious God, where shall I flee?
Thou art my on­ly trust,
And still my soul would cleave to Thee,
Though pros­trate in the dust.

Hast Thou not bid me seek Thy face?
And shall I seek in vain?
And can the ear of sov­er­eign grace
Be deaf when I com­plain?

No, still the ear of sov­er­eign grace
Attends the mourn­er’s pray­er;
O ac­cess may I ev­er find,
To breathe my sor­rows there.

Thy mer­cy seat is op­en still;
Here let my soul re­treat,
With hum­ble hope at­tend Thy will,
And wait be­neath Thy feet.

—Anne Steele