Like dew on drooping blossoms,
Like breath from Holy place,
Laden with health and healing,
Come Thy deep words of grace:
"Thy strength is all in leaning
On One who fights for thee;
Thine is the helpless clinging,
And mine the victory."

Thou wilt draw nigh!
Father — it is no dream that Thou art near —
No dream that, in my sin and misery,
I may look up to Thee,—
May hide beneath the shadow of Thy wings,
From all the restlessness of outward things,
And from my own heart's self-accusing fears —
For Thou art nigh.

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