Henry Francis Lyte (1793–1847)

LONG did I toil, and knew no earthly rest,

Far did I rove, and find no certain home;

At last I sought them in His sheltering breast,

Who opes His arms and bids the weary come:

With Him I found a home, a rest Divine,

And I since them am His, and He is mine.

Yes, He is mine—and nought of earthly things

Nor all the charms of pleasure, wealth, or power,

The fame of heroes or the pomp of kings,

Could tempt me to forget His love one hour.

Go, worthless world, I cry, with all that’s thine:

Go, I my Saviour’s am, and He is mine.

The good I have is from His stores supplied,

The ill is only what He deems the best;

He for my friend I’m rich, with nought beside;

And poor without Him, though of all possest:

Changes may come; I take, or I resign;

Content while I am His and He is mine.

Whate’er may change, in Him no change is seen;

A glorious sun that wanes not nor declines;

Above the clouds and storms He walks serene,

And sweetly on His people’s darkness shines:

All may depart, I fret not nor repine

While I my Saviour’s am, while He is mine.

He stays me falling, lifts me up when down,

Reclaims me wandering, guards from every foe;

Plants on my worthless brow the victor’s crown;

Which in return before His feet I throw,

Grieved that I cannot better grace His shrine

Who deigns to own me His, as He is mine.

While here, alas! I know but half His love,

But half discern Him, and but half adore;

But when I meet Him in the realms above,

I hope to love Him better, praise Him more,

And feel still, amid the choir divine,

How fully I am His and He is mine.