(Ruth 3. 18.)
Sit still, my child. 'Tis no great thing I ask,
No glorious deed, no mighty task;
But just to sit and patiently abide.
Wait in my presence, in my word confide,
"But oh! dear Lord, I long the sword to wield,
Forward to go, and in the battle field
To fight for thee, thine enemies o'erthrow,
And in thy strength to vanquish every foe.
"The harvest-fields spread out before me lie,
The reapers toward me look, and vainly cry--
'The field is white, the laborers are few;
Our Lord's command is also sent to you,'"
My child, it is a sweet and blessed thing
To rest beneath the shadow of my wing;
To feel thy doings and thy words are naught,
To trust to me each restless, longing thought.
"Dear Lord, help me this lesson sweet to learn,
To sit at thy pierced feet and only yearn
To love thee better, Lord, and feel that still
Waiting is working, if it be thy will."