Oft comes to me a blessed hour,
A wondrous hour and still --
With empty hands I lay me down,
No more to work or will.
An hour when weary thought has ceased,
The eyes are closed in rest;
And, hushed in Heaven's untroubled peace,
I lie upon Thy breast.
Erewile I reasoned of Thy truth,
I searched with toil and care;
From morn to night I tilled my field,
And yet my field was bare.
Now, fed with corn from fields of Heaven
The fruit of Hands Divine,
I pray no prayer, for all is given,
The Bread of God is mine.
There lie my books -- for all I sought
My heart possesses now.
The words are sweet that tell They love,
The love itself art Thou.
One line I read -- and then no more --
I close the book to see
No more the symbol and the sign,
But Christ revealed to me.
And thus my worship is, delight --
My work, to see His Face,
With folded hands and silent lips
Within His Holy place.
Thus oft to busy men I seem
A cumberer of the soil;
The dreamer of an empty dream,
Whilst others delve and toil.
O brothers! in these silent hours
God's miracles are wrought;
He giveth His beloved in sleep
A treasure all unsought.
I sit an infant at His feet
Where moments teach me more
Than all the toil, and all the books
Of all the ages hoar.
I sought the truth, and found but doubt --
I wandered far abroad;
I hail the truth already found
Within the heart of God.