Thanks , Lord, for Thy withholding grace,
As for Thy favors granted;
Since, oft-times, what I craved, if given,
Had been what least I wanted.

And pausing at this finished round,
This cycle of my being,
My soul rejoices that its way
Is with the Great All-Seeing.

His plans are wiser far than ours,
Who sees from the beginning;
And he who doubts the gracious end
Repays the grace with sinning.

Who—glancing down his tangled life,
Its thousand tricksome phases—
But sees a purpose running through,
That all his soul amazes!

Each grief, each trial, each defeat,
Has had its end designed it;
Each sin has left its after-taste,
Its bitter cure, behind it.

And yet, O will of God, most wise!—
Who can by searching know it?
And who, by seeking to reveal,
But fails the more to show it!

We wait the shining of that day
That every cloud disperses,—
Counting, the while, our losses, gains;
Our trials, tender mercies;

And clinging, still, to God's dear hand,
In our poor human fashion;
Assured that all His ways are wise
And all His thoughts compassion.