God the Only Refuge of the Troubled Mind

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 prest with fears,
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 sov'reign grace
Be deaf when I complain?

No, still the ear of sov'reign grace
Attends the mourner's pray'r;
O may I ever find access,
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.