GEORGE JOHN ROMANES
I ASK not for thy Love, O Lord; the daysCan never come when anguish shall atone.Enough for me were but Thy pity shownTo me, as to the stricken sheep that strays,With ceaseless cry for unforgotten ways—Oh, lead me back to pastures I have known,Or find me in the wilderness alone,And slay me as the hand of mercy slays.I ask not for Thy love; nor e'en so muchAs for a hope on Thy dear breast to lie;But be Thou still my shepherd—still with suchCompassion as may melt to such a cry;That so I hear Thy feet, and feel Thy touch,And dimly see Thy face ere yet I die.
I ASK not for thy Love, O Lord; the daysCan never come when anguish shall atone.Enough for me were but Thy pity shownTo me, as to the stricken sheep that strays,With ceaseless cry for unforgotten ways—Oh, lead me back to pastures I have known,Or find me in the wilderness alone,And slay me as the hand of mercy slays.I ask not for Thy love; nor e'en so muchAs for a hope on Thy dear breast to lie;But be Thou still my shepherd—still with suchCompassion as may melt to such a cry;That so I hear Thy feet, and feel Thy touch,And dimly see Thy face ere yet I die.
I ASK not for thy Love, O Lord; the daysCan never come when anguish shall atone.Enough for me were but Thy pity shownTo me, as to the stricken sheep that strays,With ceaseless cry for unforgotten ways—Oh, lead me back to pastures I have known,Or find me in the wilderness alone,And slay me as the hand of mercy slays.I ask not for Thy love; nor e'en so muchAs for a hope on Thy dear breast to lie;But be Thou still my shepherd—still with suchCompassion as may melt to such a cry;That so I hear Thy feet, and feel Thy touch,And dimly see Thy face ere yet I die.
I ASK not for thy Love, O Lord; the days
Can never come when anguish shall atone.
Enough for me were but Thy pity shown
To me, as to the stricken sheep that strays,
With ceaseless cry for unforgotten ways—
Oh, lead me back to pastures I have known,
Or find me in the wilderness alone,
And slay me as the hand of mercy slays.
I ask not for Thy love; nor e'en so much
As for a hope on Thy dear breast to lie;
But be Thou still my shepherd—still with such
Compassion as may melt to such a cry;
That so I hear Thy feet, and feel Thy touch,
And dimly see Thy face ere yet I die.