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.
Erewhile 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 Thy 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.
G. T. S.