Into a desolate land
White with the drifted snow,
Into a weary land
Our truant footsteps go:
Yet doth Thy care, O Father,
Ever Thy wanderers keep;
Still doth Thy love, O Shepherd,
Follow Thy sheep.
Over the pathless wild
Do I not see Him come?
Him who shall bear me back,
Him who shall lead me home?
Listen! between the storm-gusts
Unto the straining ear,
Comes not the cheering whisper,—
"Jesus is near."
Over me He is bending!
Now I can safely rest,
Found at the last, and clinging
Close to the Shepherd's breast:
So let me lie till the fold-bells
Sound on the homeward track,
And the rejoicing angels
Welcome us back!