O Thou by whose eternal plan
    Ages arise and roll,
  Who in Thine image madest man
    To search him to the soul,
  If e’er in token of the Cross,
    With infant arms outspread,
  Thou sawest Thy Beloved toss
    In anguish on His bed;
  Or heardest in the childish cry
    That pierced the cottage room
  The voice of Christ in agony
    Breaking from Calvary’s gloom,
  Give ear! and from Thy Throne above
    With eyes of mercy mild,
  Look down, of Thine immortal love,
    Upon our suffering child.

  Though Earth’s physicians all in vain
    Have urged their utmost skill,
  Yet to our prayers O make it plain
    That Thou canst succour still;
  Yea! through the midnight watches drear,
    And all the weary day,
  O be Thy Good Physician near
    Our stricken one to stay;
  That evermore as we succeed
    In service at his side,
  Each office of our darling’s need
    His heavenly hands may guide;
  Till o’er his tempest bed of pain,
    His cry of perishing thrill
  The Saviour’s arm go forth again,
    The Saviour’s “Peace! be still.”

  Too well, O Lord, too well we know
    How oft upon Thy way
  Our feet have followed faint and slow,
    How often turned astray
  For fleeting pleasures to forsake
    Thy path of heavenly prayer;
  We have deserved that Thou shouldst take
    Our children from our care. 
  Yet, O Good Shepherd, lead us back,
    Our lamb upon Thy breast,
  Safely along the narrow track,
    Across the dangerous crest;
  Until our aching eyes rejoice
    At Salem’s shining walls,
  And to our thirsting souls a Voice
    Of Living Waters calls.

HE HAS COME BACK

  Without the wintry sky is overcast,
    The floods descend, fierce hail and rushing rain,
  Whilst ever and anon the angry blast
    Clutches the casement-pane. 
  Within our darling beats an angrier air
    With piteous outstretched arms and tossing head,
    Whilst we, bowed low beside his labouring bed,
  Pour all our hearts in prayer.

  Is this the end?  The tired little hands
    Fall by his side, the wild eyes close at last,
  Breathless he sinks, almost we hear his sands
    Of being ebbing past;
  When, O miraculous! he wakes once more,
    Love glowing in his glance, the while there slips
    “Mother, dear Mother!” from his trembling lips,
  “Dear Mother!” o’er and o’er.

  He has come back, our little Fairy Child,
    Back from his wanderings in the dreadful dark,
  Back o’er the furious surge of fever wild,
    The lost dove of our ark;
  Back, slowly back o’er the dire flood’s decrease
    The white wings flutter, only our God knows how,
    Bearing aloft the blessed olive bough
  Of His compassionate peace.