Come, Lover of my anxious heart, console

Come, Lover of my anxious heart, console
Me now; I do not doubt your mighty pow’r
To feed the sparrow and to clothe the flow'r
In gold that glimmers here and in the whole
Of your creation; why then is my soul
Left wanting, waiting for some better hour
Of blessing? Why this season of such sour
And bitter providence? What trials stole,
Restore to me--and manifold--by grace;
O God who knows my needs, provide before
I pray. Do You a higher value place
On me than them? Then give from Heaven's store
And make the bitter sweet; and leave no trace
Of want in me that I might love You more.