Good News

The gladsome tidings of Thy heavenly grace—
Surpassing thought—
Which for the ransom of a captive race
Redemption wrought,
With all its matchless miracle of grief,
Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief!
In sin conceived, corrupt in thought and deed,
Branded with shame,
I come confessing my sad plight, but plead
Thy peerless name,
And blood for sinners shed, yea, for the chief.
Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief!
Today I come: I dare no longer wait.
The present reign
Of grace this hour may pass, and I too late
Might seek in vain,
And even here my sojourn must be brief—
Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief!
My sorrow-laden soul Thou shalt receive,
And rest impart.
Let not, O Lord, my hesitancy grieve
Thy faithful heart,
For in Thee only can I find relief—
Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief!
White are the fields to harvest even now,
And, lo, I see
The standing corn before the reapers bow:
O bind Thou me,
Lord of the harvest, in Thy heavenly sheaf,
For I believe: help Thou mine unbelief!
Soon Thou shalt come, and that shall close the gate
Of mercy free,
To scorners all, who then, alas, too late
Shall bend the knee.
When on the world Thou comest as a thief—
Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief!