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God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill, He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will. Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread, Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace ; Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
But sweet will be the flower.
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain ; God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain,
Happy he sailed, and great the care she took,
comfort men at sea can know,
His messmates smiled at flushings in his cheek,
Thomas, I must die :
He had his wish, had more : I will not paint
Yes! I must die”—and hope for ever fled.
life be gone,