The Sabbath Year Gerhard Tersteegen Heb. iv. 10 Oft comes to me a blessed hour, A wondrous hour and still- With empty hands I lay me down, No more to work or will. An hour when weary thought has ceased, The eyes are closed in rest; And, hushed in Heaven's untroubled peace, I lie upon Thy breast. Erewile I reasoned of Thy truth, I searched with toil and care; From morn to night I tilled my field, And yet my field was bare. Now, fed with corn from fields of Heaven The fruit of Hands Divine, I pray no prayer, for all is given, The Bread of God is mine. There lie my books-for all I sought My heart possesses now. The words are sweet that tell They love, The love itself art Thou. One line I read-and then no more- I close the book to see No more the symbol and the sign, But Christ revealed to me. And thus my worship is, delight- My work, to see His Face, With folded hands and silent lips Within His Holy place. Thus oft to busy men I seem A cumberer of the soil; The dreamer of an empty dream, Whilst others delve and toil. O brothers! in these silent hours God's miracles are wrought; He giveth His beloved in sleep A treasure all unsought. I sit an infant at His feet Where moments teach me more Than all the toil, and all the books Of all the ages hoar. I sought the truth, and found but doubt- I wandered far abroad; I hail the truth already found Within the heart of God.
