His Voice I Hear (#178) | Jennie Mast, 1911
I cannot tell when the thunders peal,
How fiercely the storm may rage,
Nor how dense are the shades of the night that steal
O’er the path of my pilgrimage;
But I know, with my Savior always near,
As that night on the Galilee,
The tempest will cease when His voice I hear,
And the darkest shadows flee.
I cannot see through the darkest clouds
His image so wondrous fair,
And forget sometimes, when the gloom enshrouds,
The mansion awaiting there;
But if on the wings of faith I soar,
In the strength of His word alone,
My soul can drink till I want no more,
From fountains of love unknown.
I cannot drink one draught of pain
From the cup once drained for me,
Or bear the heat on the desert plain,
Nor the grief of Gethsemane;
But I know, if His cross I meekly bear,
If I labor, and watch, and pray,
His suff’rings I a part may share
From thorns in the narrow way.
I cannot see for the veil between
The beautiful gates ajar,
The streets of gold, and the living green,
On the banks of the river there;
But I know, somewhere, on that heavenly strand,
Is a mansion, and robe, and crown,
Preserved by the Savior’s loving hand
Till my work on earth is done.