tr., Emma Frances Bevan, 1899
In the bosom of the Father,
Centre of His endless love,
In the light and in the glory,
Thus in Christ I dwell above.
Filling up His bitter sufferings,
Drinking of His cup of woe,
And rejoicing as I do it,
Thus with Christ I walk below.
There above I rest, untroubled,
All my service to adore;
Cross and shame and death and sorrow
Left behind for evermore.
Therefore am I never weary
Journeying onward through the waste;
And the bitter Marah waters
Have but sweetness to my taste.
While He tells the wondrous secret
Of His perfect love to me,
While His heart's exhaustless fulness
In His blessed face I see;
Can there be but joy and glory
In His Cross and shame below?
Sweet each mark of His rejection;
Where His steps are, I must go.
One the path, and one the sorrow --
Path the angels cannot tread;
Sorrow giving sweet assurance
We are members, He the Head,
Blessed path that ends to-morrow
In the place where He is gone;
Thus, the silver trumpets sounding,
Through the waste we journey on.