No Rest but Christ. Isa. 11. 10; Matt. 11. 28, 29

J. Berridge         148th

When Jesus’ gracious hand
Has touched our eyes and ears,
O what a dreary land
The wilderness appears!
No healing balm springs from its dust;
No cooling stream to quench the thirst.

Yet long I vainly sought
A resting-place below;
And that sweet land forgot
Where living waters flow;
I hunger now for heavenly food,
And my poor heart cries out for God.

[Lord, enter in my breast,
And with me sup and stay;
Nor prove a hasty guest,
Who tarries but a day;
Upon my bosom fix thy throne,
And pull each fancy idol down.]

My sorrow thou canst see,
For thou dost read my heart;
It pineth after thee,
And yet from thee will start;
Reclaim thy roving child at last,
And fix my heart and bind it fast.

I would be near thy feet,
Or at thy bleeding side;
Feel how thy heart does beat,
And see its purple tide;
Trace all the wonders of thy death,
And sing thy love in every breath.