 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
Not Yet.
Not yet thou knowest what I do,
O feeble child of earth,
Whose life is but to angel view
The morning of thy birth!
The smallest leaf, the simplest flower,
The wild bee's honey-cell,
Have lessons of My love and power
Too hard for thee to spell.
O feeble child of earth,
Whose life is but to angel view
The morning of thy birth!
The smallest leaf, the simplest flower,
The wild bee's honey-cell,
Have lessons of My love and power
Too hard for thee to spell.
Thou knowest not how I uphold
The little thou dost scan;
And how much less canst thou unfold
My universal plan,
Where all thy mind can grasp of space
Is but a grain of sand;—
The time thy boldest thought can trace,
One ripple on the strand!
The little thou dost scan;
And how much less canst thou unfold
My universal plan,
20
Is but a grain of sand;—
The time thy boldest thought can trace,
One ripple on the strand!
Not yet thou knowest what I do,
In this wild, warring world,
Whose prince doth still triumphant view
Confusion's flag unfurled;
Nor how each proud and daring thought
Is subject to My will,
Each strong and secret purpose brought
My counsel to fulfil.
In this wild, warring world,
Whose prince doth still triumphant view
Confusion's flag unfurled;
Nor how each proud and daring thought
Is subject to My will,
Each strong and secret purpose brought
My counsel to fulfil.
Not yet thou knowest how I bid
Each passing hour entwine
Its grief or joy, its hope or fear,
In one great love-design;
Nor how I lead thee through the night,
By many a various way,
Still upward to unclouded light,
And onward to the day.
Each passing hour entwine
Its grief or joy, its hope or fear,
In one great love-design;
Nor how I lead thee through the night,
By many a various way,
Still upward to unclouded light,
And onward to the day.
Not yet thou knowest what I do
Within thine own weak breast,
To mould thee to My image true,
And fit thee for My rest.
But yield thee to My loving skill;
The veilèd work of grace,
From day to day progressing still,
It is not thine to trace.
Within thine own weak breast,
To mould thee to My image true,
And fit thee for My rest.
But yield thee to My loving skill;
The veilèd work of grace,
From day to day progressing still,
It is not thine to trace.
21
Yes, walk by faith and not by sight,
Fast clinging to My hand;
Content to feel My love and might,
Not yet to understand.
A little while thy course pursue,
Till grace to glory grow;
Then what I am, and what I do,
Hereafter thou shalt know.
Fast clinging to My hand;
Content to feel My love and might,
Not yet to understand.
A little while thy course pursue,
Till grace to glory grow;
Then what I am, and what I do,
Hereafter thou shalt know.
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |