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by Elizabeth Hedge Webster

In the arms of my Father
As a child trustingly I'll lie,
For I know He careth for me:
He will listen to my cry.

He is like a tender mother,
In His gentle, watchful love;
He is nearer than a brother,
While He bears my soul above.

When the storm clouds darkly gather,
And the thunder mutters deep,
Then I'll think how great a Father
Condescends to guard my sleep.

And I'll nestle closer to Him,
While the forked lightnings gleam,
And serenely lean upon Him,
While I watch their fitful beam.

He'll not leave me sorrowing,
For He stoops to such as I:
He'll not cast me from Him mourning.
For He hears the raven's cry.

And unless his love permits it,
Not a harm can come to me;
So, why should I not trust him
When He such a friend can be?

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