Not Yet

Not yet thou knowest what I do,
O feeble child of earth,
Whose life is but to angel view
The morning of thy birth !
The smallest leaf, the simplest flower,
The wild bee's honey-cell,
Have lessons of My love and power
Too hard for thee to spell.

Thou knowest not how I uphold
The little thou dost scan ;
And how much less canst thou unfold
My universal plan,
Where all thy mind can grasp of space
Is but a grain of sand ; —
The time thy boldest thought can trace,
One ripple on the strand !

Not yet thou knowest what I do,
In this wild, warring world,
Whose prince doth still triumphant view
Confusion's flag unfurled ;
Nor how each proud and daring thought
Is subject to My will,
Each strong and secret purpose brought
My counsel to fulfil.

Not yet thou knowest how I bid
Each passing hour entwine
Its grief or joy, its hope or fear,
In one great love-design ;
Nor how I lead thee through the night,
By many a various way,
Still upward to unclouded light,
And onward to the day.

Not yet thou knowest what I do
Within thine own weak breast,
To mould thee to My image true,
And fit thee for My rest.
But yield thee to My loving skill ;
The veiled work of grace,
From day to day progressing still,
It is not thine to trace.

Yes, walk by faith and not by sight,
Fast clinging to My hand ;
Content to feel My love and might,
Not yet to understand.
A little while thy course pursue,
Till grace to glory grow ;
Then what I am, and what I do,
Hereafter thou shalt know.