Quinquagesima Sunday

Jesus Christ! thou Son of David
Mercy mercy have on me;
For my soul, too long enslaved,
Sighs for liberty and Thee.

On life's wayside, dull and dreary,
I can hear Thee passing by,
But my heart is sad and weary
Till I see Thee with mine eye.

Long alas! by passion blinded,
Wand'ring off ' the narrow way,'
O how hard it is to find it!
Turn, my Saviour, turn and stay.

Hush poor soul! thy Lord is going
On to weariness and pain,
Wilt thou then, this secret knowing,
Care to lift thy voice again?

Yes! I will, His very sorrow
Makes me know He feels for mine,
Thence alone my heart doth borrow
All its hope of light divine.

Had He stayed in bliss above me,
I might doubt His care to bless,
But what proof, that He doth love me,
Better than the wilderness!

There let His sweet voice allure me,
I will follow and have rest,
Certain that He will ensure me
Comfort, in the way that's best.

But canst thou, with calm conviction,
Trust Him even tho' He slay,
And His footsteps of affliction
Follow, as the safest way!

Yes! I can, let me but hear Him,
I shall follow that sweet Voice,
Thankful only to be near Him,
Till His light my soul rejoice:

Waiting till His glory lighten
These dark eyes to look on Him,
And behold His sunshine brighten
All that else on earth were dim.

Only let my Lord precede me,
Only let Him deign to bless,
I shall follow, lead me, lead me,
'Up into the wilderness.'

Rise glad soul! thy prayer is granted,
Soon thy longing eyes shall see
That for which thy heart hath panted:
Rise, thy Saviour calleth thee.