Chorale Book for England

My God, in Thee all fulness lies,

All want in me, from Thee apart;

In Thee my soul hath endless joys,

In me is but an aching heart;

Poor as the poorest here I pine,

In Thee a heav'nly kingdom's mine.

Thou seest whatsoe'er I need,

Thou seest it, and pitiest me;

Thy swift compassions hither speed,

Ere yet my woes are told to Thee;

Thou hearest, Father, ere we cry,

Shall I not still before Thee lie?

I leave to Thee whate'er is mine,

And in Thy will I calmly rest;

I know that richest gifts are Thine,

Thou canst and Thou wilt make me blest,

For Thou hath promised, and our Lord

Will never break His promised word.

Thou lov'st me, Father, with the love

Wherewith Thou lovedst Christ Thy Son,

And so a brightness from above

Still glads me though my tears may run,

For in Thy love I find and know

What all the world could ne'er bestow.

Then I can let the world go by,

And yet be still and rest in Thee,

I sit, I walk, I stand, I lie,

Thou ever watchest over me,

And when the yoke is pressing sore

I think, my God lives evermore!