In Sincerity

Thou saddened one whose longing eyes

Seek quickening thoughts to glean,

Whose views of Christ, the Heavenly prize,

Clouds often veer between,

That rapture which may be expressed

By others constantly

Is not thine own; in truth confessed,

Where is the mystery?

Ask now these questions of thy soul:

My heart, is it sincere?

Do I his holy name extol,

And is He truly dear?

Like Peter can I, too, record

And urge his earnest plea,

"Thou knowest all things, gracious Lord;

Thou knowest I love Thee"?

There is no music like his voice:

To this can'st thou attest?

No message makes thee so rejoice

As "Come to me and rest"?

If there's been left within thine heart

By word or deed a thorn,

Can prayer extract the cruel dart

And heal it ere the morn?

Does prayer cast out disquietude

And every bitter thought;

All hate and enmity exclude

By Love with patience fraught?

Or, if perchance there may be found

A hurt that festers still,

Is this the balm that soothes the wound

"'Twas needed; 'tis God's will"?

Is there a saint, however poor,

However lowly born,

That earthly treasure could allure

Thee to mistreat or scorn?

These queries, are they answered well?

Then press with joy toward Heaven,

Filled with that peace tongue cannot tell,

The sense of sin forgiven.

Accept your Saviour's proffered rest!

Behold! there's grace for thee;

All those who love Him now are blest,

Love in sincerity.