Faith, like a simple, unsuspecting child,
Serenely resting on its mother's arm,
Reposing every care upon her God,
Sleeps on his bosom, and expects no harm.

Receives with joy the promises he makes,
Nor questions of his purpose or his power;
She does not doubting ask, 'Can this be so?'
The Lord has said it, and there needs no more.

However deep be the mysterious word,
However dark, she disbelieves it not;
Where Reason would examine, Faith obeys,
And 'It is written,' answers every doubt.

Faith, with a keen and realizing glance,
Revels in things yet distant and unseen,
And tastes a joy as exquisite, as true,
As if no veil of darkness hung between.

It is no cold, reversionary bliss,-
No distant hope the trusting bosom proves;
Faith has already wing'd the soul to heaven,
In search of Him whom seeing not she loves.

If clouds and darkness rest upon the soul,
Darkness is welcome, since it is His will;
In nature's saddest moments Faith can say,
'Though he should slay me, I will trust him still!'

In vain, with rude and overwhelming force,
Conscience repeats her tale of misery;
And powers infernal, wakeful to destroy,
Urge the worn spirit to despair and die.

As evening's pale and solitary star
But brightens while the darkness gathers round,
So Faith, unmov'd amid surrounding storms,
Is fairest seen in darkness most profound!