A PSALM

J. D. Stenhouse

Lord Jesus, how this heart of mine

Needs ever to keep close to Thine

To find its own repose,

To find in Thee One who has been

A stranger in this desert scene

And all the pathway knows.

Thou as the tender sapling grew

Through every blighting wind that blew

And to God’s eye wast fair.

Thy grace and truth did there abound,

Like green spot in a dry, parched ground.

None could with Thee compare.

Though man no comeliness did see,

Yea, poured his malice out on Thee

And sought Thy life to spoil.

Thou didst grow up upon this earth

Like rare exotic from Thy birth

Upon a foreign soil.

O what an empty waste was this!

Till Thou didst grace the wilderness

It grieved the heart of God.

Such fragrance there had never been

In all this barren sin-stained scene

Until Thy path was trod.

With thorns and briars all around

In unmarred beauty Thou wast found;

We marvel at Thy grace.

Assailed, beset on every hand,

For God unyielding Thou didst stand

And took the lowly place.

The frown of man to Thee was given,

But Thou didst gain the smile of heaven,

Thou wast God’s own delight.

Men held Thee low in their esteem,

But, unto God, of all supreme,

Most precious in His sight.

Thy holy soul was stirred within

To see the ravages of sin

Wherever Thou didst go.

Thy healing influence was shed

Where’er Thy blessed feet did tread

In scenes of want and woe.

O Man of sorrows, Thou didst bear

Thy daily load of grief and care,

With feelings only Thine.

A suffering unlike the rest

Thy spirit bore, within the breast

For Thou wast pure—divine.

Unflinchingly we see Thee, calm,

And unresisting, as a lamb

Led out to bleed and die.

We see Thee by the shearers shorn,

We see the gall, the nails, the thorn

We see the end draw nigh.

But darkness veiled those pangs of Thine

When Thou wast made—O grace divine!

An offering for sin.

There Thou didst bow Thy blessed head,

There Thou wast numbered with the dead,

Our rebel hearts to win.

We see Thee laid within the tomb,

And forth from it in triumph come,

We see Thee crowned on high.

Thou’lt see the travail of Thy soul,

Be satisfied, while ages roll,

Thy praise shall never die.

Bathurst
N.S.W., Australia