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Alfred H. Miles, ed. The Sacred Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.

By Hymns and Meditations. II. “My heart is resting, O my God”

Anna Lætitia Waring (1820–1910)

MY heart is resting, O my God,—

I will give thanks and sing;

My heart is at the secret source

Of every precious thing.

Now the frail vessel Thou hast made

No hand but Thine shall fill—

For the waters of the earth have failed,

And I am thirsty still.

I thirst for springs of heavenly life,

And here all day they rise—

I seek the treasure of Thy love,

And close at hand it lies.

And a “new song” is in my mouth

To long-loved music set—

Glory to Thee for all the grace

I have not tasted yet.

Glory to Thee for strength withheld,

For want and weakness known—

And the fear that sends me to Thy breast

For what is most my own.

I have a heritage of joy

That yet I must not see;

But the hand that bled to make it mine

Is keeping it for me.

There is a certainty of love

That sets my heart at rest—

A calm assurance for to-day,

That to be poor is best;

A prayer reposing on His truth

Who hath made all things mine,

That draws my captive will to Him,

And makes it one with Thine.

I will give thanks for suffering now,

For want and toil and loss—

For the death that sin makes hard and slow

Upon my Saviour’s cross—

Thanks for the little spring of love

That gives me strength to say,

“If they will leave me part in Him,

Let all things pass away.”

Sometimes I long for promised bliss,

But it will not come too late—

And the songs of patient spirits rise

From the place wherein I wait;

While in the faith that makes no haste

My soul has time to see

A kneeling host of Thy redeemed,

In fellowship with me.

There is a multitude around

Responsive to my prayer;

I hear the voice of my desire

Resounding everywhere.

But the earnest of eternal joy

In every prayer I trace;

I see the glory of the Lord

On every chastened face.

How oft, in still communion known,

Those spirits have been sent

To share the travail of my soul,

Or show me what it meant!

And I long to do some work of love

No spoiling hand could touch,

For the poor and suffering of Thy flock

Who comfort me so much.

But the yearning thought is mingled now

With the thankful song I sing;

For thy people know the secret source

Of every precious thing.

The heart that ministers for Thee

In Thy own work will rest;

And the subject spirit of a child

Can serve Thy children best.

Mine be the reverent, listening love

That waits all day on Thee,

With the service of a watchful heart

Which no one else can see—

The faith that, in a hidden way

No other eye may know,

Finds all its daily work prepared,

And loves to have it so.

My heart is resting, O my God,

My heart is in Thy care—

I hear the voice of joy and health

Resounding everywhere.

“Thou art my portion,” saith my soul,

Ten thousand voices say,

And the music of their glad Amen

Will never die away.