What windows look upon your face,
Through darkest hour and hardest race,
Where can we see the upward turn? —
Your sovereign hand we’d soon discern.
I see the waves and howling wind,
The chilly vale where men walk blind,
And fail, in swelling pride, to heal —
I most believe the fear I feel.
Till Jesus comes, will I have faith?
Or will I be an object of wrath?
My will to endure, O Lord, is small —
Along the way let me not fall.