See, how rude winter’s icy hand

Has stripped the trees, and sealed the ground!

But spring shall soon his rage withstand,

And spread new beauties all around.

My soul, a sharper winter mourns,

Barren and fruitless I remain;

When will the gentle spring return,

And bid my graces grow again?

Jesus, my glorious Sun arise!

’Tis thine, the frozen heart to move

O hush these storms and clear my skies,

And let me feel thy vital love!

Dear Lord, regard my feeble cry,

I faint and droop till thou appear;

Wilt thou permit thy plant to die?

Must it be winter all the year?

Be still, my soul, and wait his hour,

With humble prayer, and patient faith;

Till he reveals his gracious pow’r,

Repose on what his promise faith.

He, by whose all–commanding word,

Seasons this changing course maintain;

In every change a pledge affords,

That none shall seek his face in vain.