I love this old text by Anne Steele.
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 ev’ry 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.