O Lord, how wild the night
I cannot walk alone.
The sin within me frightens,
As oft from Thee I roam.
The dark, cold blast of winter,
The shiv'ring of the trees !
Dear Lord, the cold is bitter,
And drear the sighing breeze.

I long to have more likeness
To Thy sweet, wondrous grace;
I long to see the brightness
Of my Redeemer's face;
But clouds so often gather,
And raindrops wildly fall.
O kind and heavenly Father!
They hang there like a pall.

I pause, for, look! the glory
Of yon silver, golden bow
Still whispereth the story
Of One who knows my woe.
The silver, shining, telleth
The sweetness of His grace;
The gold, that glory dwelleth
In the dear Saviour's face.

And now my soul it husheth
In calm and sweet repose;
I lay the weight that crusheth
Aside, for Jesus knows. "
Let not your heart be troubled "
By the dark billows' foam;
For though the storm be doubled,
It bloweth, ever, home.

F. C. G.