THE FATHER'S GRACE by J N Darby

             

Father, in Thine eternal power,
Thy grace and majesty divine,
No soul, in this weak mortal hour,
Can grasp the glory that is Thine!


E'en in its thoughts of sovereign grace
It leaves us all far, far behind;
The love that gives with Christ a place
Surpasses our poor feeble mind.


And yet that love is not unknown
To those who have the Saviour seen;
Nor strange to those He calls His own –
Pilgrims in scenes where He has been.


In Him Thy perfect love, revealed,
Has led our hearts that love to trace
Where nothing of that love's concealed,
But meets us in our lowly place.


But grace, the source of all our hope,
From Thine eternal nature flows;
Could to our lost condition stoop,
And now through Christ no hindrance knows;


Has flowed in fullest streams below,
And opened to our hearts the place
Where, in its ripened fruits, we'll know
The eternal blessings of that grace.


And here we walk, as sons through grace,
A Father's love our present joy;
Sons, in the brightness of Thy face,
Find rest no sorrows can destroy.


Nor is the comfort of Thy love,
In which we "Abba, Father" cry,
The only blessing that we prove:
Because that love is ever nigh,


A holy Father's constant care
Keeps watch, with an unwearying eye,
To see what fruits His children bear,
Fruits that may suit their calling high;


Takes ever knowledge of our state –
What dims communion with His love,
Might check our growth or separate
Our hearts from what's revealed above.


Oh, wondrous Love, that ne'er forgets
The object of its tender care;
May chasten still, while sin besets,
To warn and guard them where they are;


But ne'er forgets, but feeds them still
With tokens of His tender love;
Will keep till, freed from every ill,
They find their rest with Him above.


Oh, wondrous, infinite, divine!
Keep near, my soul, to that blest place,
Where all those heavenly glories shine
Which suit the brightness of His face.


Oh, lowliness, how feebly known,
That meets the grace that gave the Son!
That waits, to serve Him as His own,
Till grace what grace began shall crown!

1879


Looking south to the Moorfoot Hills from the Bing (a coal spoil heap near home now landscaped).