A SONG IN THE NIGHT
H. J. Taylor
Praise be to God my Maker
Who giveth songs by night.
‘Tis oft nocturnal season
In life’s brief way below,
But every night a reason
The coming day will show.
His chast’ning hand seems heavy,
So oft misunderstood,
Demands betimes a levy
Beyond what seemeth good.
Arrest, my soul, such thinking!
Thy pathway all is planned;
Lift up thyself from sinking,
It is the Father’s hand.
The Father who has called thee,
Thy spirit moulds with care,
His pleasure now to test thee
And see more fruit appear.
No son delights in scourging,
‘Tis grievous at the time,
But consequent on purging
The fruit is rendered prime.
And so, most tender Father,
Thee always will I praise,
Spring, summer, autumn, winter,
In nights as well as days.
It is Thy love transcending,
Behind Thine unkenned ways,
That holds the heart low bending,
Ensures the constant lays.
Praise be to God my Maker
Who giveth songs by night.
London