A Cry to God

Comfort, comfort, comfort!

My weary bones doth cry,

Yet of Your comfort I have none

Save that I might die.

No person, place, nor kindly word,

No inward surety,

Can banish from this wretched flesh

Pain or anxiety.

Alone, alone, alone!

My frightened soul doth cry,

Your presence shrouded in a pall,

I plead t’ward iron skies.

No prayer, no psalm, no sacred rite,

No well-intentioned verse,

Can bring me closer to my God

Save for the blackest hearse.

Futile, futile, futile!

My doubting lips doth cry,

For where Your goodness doth appear,

Suff’ring, too, is nigh.

No blessing, joy, nor healer’s balm,

No hope I cling to fast,

Can cure me of this cursed sin,

Save final trumpet’s blast.

Comfort, comfort, comfort,

Your still, small voice doth speak,

For in You, Lord, I find my rest,

You love me though I’m weak.