Classic Poem

We ask not, Father, the repose
Which comes from outward rest,
If we may have through all life's woes
Thy peace within our breast:

That peace which suffers and is strong,
Trusts where it cannot see,
Deems not the trial-way too long,
But leaves the end with thee;

That peace which, through the billows' moan
And angry tempests' roar,
Sends forth its calm, unfaltering tone
Of joy forevermore;

That peace which flows serene and deep,
A river in the soul,
Whose banks a living verdure keep,
God's sunshine o'er the whole.