When, Dearest Lord, When Shall It Be?

When

dear­est Lord

when shall it be

That I shall find my all in Thee

The full­ness of Thy pro­mise prove

The seal of Thine eter­nal love?

A poor

blind child I wan­der here

If hap­ly I may feel Thee near:

O dark

dark

dark

I still must say

Amid the blaze of Gos­pel day.

Thee

on­ly Thee

I fain would I find

I cast the world and flesh be­hind;

Thou

on­ly Thou

to me be giv’n

And all Thou hast in earth or Heav’n.

All earth­ly com­forts I dis­dain

They shall not rob me of my pain

Or make me sense­less of my load

Or less dis­con­so­late for God.

Rather

let all the crea­tures take

Their mi­se­ra­ble com­forts back

With ev­ery vain re­lief de­part

And leave me to my brok­en heart.

Leave me

my friends

the mourn­er leave

For God

and not for you I grieve;

My weak­ness

O ye strong

des­pise

My fool­ish ig­nor­ance

ye wise.

Let all my Fa­ther’s child­ren be

Still ang­ry

still dis­pleased with me

Disclaim

dis­hon­or

and dis­own:

I would be poor

for­lorn

alone.

A child

a fool

a thing of naught

Abhorred

ne­glect­ed

and for­got

Contemned

aban­don­ed

and dis­tressed

Till I from mor­tal man have ceased.

When from the arm of flesh set free

Jesu

my soul shall fly to Thee:

Jesu

when I have lost my all

My soul shall on Thy bo­som fall.

When man for­sakes

Thou wilt not leave

Ready the out­casts to re­ceive

Thou all my sim­ple­ness I own

And all my faults to Thee are known.

Ah! where­fore did I ev­er doubt?

Thou wilt in no wise cast me out

A help­less soul that comes to Thee

With on­ly sin and mi­se­ry.

Lord

I am sick; My sick­ness cure;

I want; Do Thou en­rich the poor:

Under Thy migh­ty hand I stoop

O lift the ab­ject sin­ner up!

Lord

I am blind; be Thou my sight;

Lord

I am weak; be Thou my might;

A help­er of the help­less be

And let me find my all in Thee!