THE REST OF THE WAY Of fathomless mercy, O Infinite grace! In humble thanksgiving the road I retrace, Thou never hast failed me, my strength and my stay; To whom should I turn for the rest of the way? Through danger, through darkness, by day and by night Thou ever hast guided and guided aright. I have trusted in Thee and peacefully lay M y hand in Thy hand for the rest of the way. Thy cross all my refuge, Thy blood all my plea None other I need, blessed Jesus, but Thee. I fear not the shadows at the close of life's day, For Thou wilt go with me the rest of the way. Somebody needs your sympathy, Your words of comfort sweet; You'll find him somewhere if you look, Perhaps he's on the street; Or maybe in a lonely room, An invalid on his cot; Perhaps he's suffered, suffered long Although you knew it not. Somebody needs your sympathy, Your prayers amid the strife; Perhaps it is a mother dear, Who's suffered much in life; Or some forsaken girl or boy Beneath the world's cold feet, Unnoticed by the passing throngs They chance so much to meet. Somebody needs your sympathy— A doctor, or a nurse; Or preacher wearied with his toils Whom men despise and curse; Or teacher, who has done her best To educate your child; Or a man in business, worn and tired. Whose brain is almost wild. Somebody needs your sympathy— A beggar by the way; SOMEBODY NEEDS YOUR SYMPATHY
Or father bent with many cares, Who longs to hear you pray; Or maybe some poor sinner lost. Because you passed him by; Or wretched soul that's strayed from God Who very soon shall die. — Walter E. Isenhour HIS BILLOWS (Psalm 42:7) They are His billows, whether they go over us Hiding His face in smothering spray and foam, Or, smooth and sparkling, spread a path before us, And to our haven bear us safely home. They are His billows, whether, as our Helper, He walks across them, stilling all our fear, Or to our cry there comes not aid nor answer, And in the lonely silence none is near. They are His billows, whether we are toiling Through tempest-driven waves that never cease, W hile deep to deep with clamor loud is calling, Or at His word they hush them selves in peace. They are His billows, whether He divides them, Making us walk dry shod where seas had flowed, Or lets tumultuous breakers surge about us Rushing unchecked across our only road. They are His billows, and He brings us through them; So has He promised, so His love will do; Keeping and leading, guiding and up holding, To His sure harbor, He will bring us through. — Annie Johnson Flint
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