Struggle

Your ways, O Lord, are not our own;

We’d not have chosen had we known

The struggle into which we have been born,

For daily we partake of death,

And find our souls robbed of their rest

’Til wretched, weary, sinful and forlorn,

We fall upon our knees despairing,

The burden of our darkness bearing,

Starved for the peace and hope of Gospel light.

Yet all around is naught but dross,

Words of men void of the Cross,

Which only magnify our soul’s dark night.

We long for that which makes us strong,

Which buoys us up in battles long,

And calls to mind the glory nigh ahead.

For those who by faith do endure,

And by their trials are made pure,

On Savior’s breast shall rest their weary heads.

For now the struggle serves to keep

The straying, simple, chosen sheep

Close to their Master’s loving, watchful eye;

And tempers them as in the flame,

Softly whisp’ring Messiah’s Name,

So when at last they lay them down to die,

Their souls can rest—

In Jesus blest

With Gospel wings that bid them heav’nward fly.