FATHER, in Thine eternal power,
Thy grace and majesty divine,
No soul, in this weak mortal hour,
Can grasp the glory that is Thine!
E'en in its thoughts of sovereign grace
It leaves us all far, far behind;
The love that gives with Christ a place
Surpasses our poor feeble mind.
And yet that love is not unknown
To those who have the Saviour seen;
Nor strange to those He calls His own -
Pilgrims in scenes where He has been.
In Him Thy perfect love, revealed,
Has led our hearts that love to trace
Where nothing of that love's concealed,
But meets us in our lowly place.
But grace, the source of all our hope,
From Thine eternal nature flows;
Could to our lost condition stoop,
And now through Christ no hindrance knows;
Has flowed in fullest streams below,
And opened to our hearts the place
Where, in its ripened fruits, we'll know
The eternal blessings of that grace.
And here we walk, as sons through grace,
A Father's love our present joy;
Sons, in the brightness of Thy face,
Find rest no sorrows can destroy.
Nor is the comfort of Thy love,
In which we "Abba, Father" cry,
The only blessing that we prove:
Because that love is ever nigh,