If the countenance of God be hid
Bid me speak in tones muted
Suited for just a somber sense
Whence cometh only the night.
Light, though, shines when He is near
Fear and mourning fade like dew
True to the sun’s abiding face
Grace be His nature and mercy mild.
Child of affliction made pure as gold
Bold I come to the bountiful throne
Prone in heart yet set on high
Nigh to Him that makes me His.
‘Tis only He that bids me come
From my estate to one so grand
Branded with a name that’s new
Through the face of God not hid.
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