O what a strange, a fearful strife,
When desolation's wintry breath
Disturbs the calm of peace-of life-
With the dark storms of doubt and death!
O what a struggle wakes within
When, in the spirit's solitude,
The tempting, treach'rous thoughts of sin
In all their luring smiles intrude!
'Tis then, my Father! then I feel
My nature's weakness-and, oppressed,
Like a poor trembling child, I steal
To Thee, for safety and for rest.
Beneath Thy shadows let me live!
Be Thou my Friend-my Father be!
I bend in dust-I pray, Forgive
The erring child that flies to Thee!