Патрик Бронте (Patrick Brontë)

The Cottager's Hymn

I.

My food is but spare,
   And humble my cot,
Yet Jesus dwells there
   And blesses my lot:
Though thinly I'm clad,
   And tempests oft roll,
He's raiment, and bread,
   And drink to my soul.

II.

His presence is wealth,
   His grace is a treasure,
His promise is health
   And joy out of measure.
His word is my rest,
   His spirit my guide:
In Him I am blest
   Whatever betide.

III.

Since Jesus is mine,
   Adieu to all sorrow;
I ne'er shall repine,
   Nor think of to-morrow:
The lily so fair,
   And raven so black,
He nurses with care,
   Then how shall I lack?

IV.

Each promise is sure,
   That shines in His word,
And tells me, though poor,
   I'm rich in my Lord.
Hence!  Sorrow and Fear!
   Since Jesus is nigh,
I'll dry up each tear
   And stifle each sigh.

V.

Though prince, duke, or lord,
   Ne'er enter my shed,
King Jesus my board
   With dainties does spread.
Since He is my guest,
   For joy I shall sing,
And ever be blest
   In Jesus my King.

VI.

With horrible din
   Afflictions may swell,--
They cleanse me from sin,
   They save me from hell:
They're all but the rod
   Of Jesus, in love;
They lead me to God
   And blessings above.

VII.

Through sickness and pain
   I flee to my Lord,
Sweet comfort to gain,
   And health from His word;
Bleak scarcities raise
   A keener desire,
To feed on His grace,
   And wear His attire.

VIII.

The trials which frown,
   Applied by His blood,
But plait me a crown,
   And work for my good.
In praise I shall tell,
   When throned in my rest,
The things which befell
   Were always the best.

IX.

Whatever is hid
   Shall burst on my sight
When hence I have fled
   To glorious light.
Should chastisements lower,
   Then let me resign;
Should kindnesses shower,
   Let gratitude shine.

X.

Hence!  Sorrow and Fear!
   Since Jesus is nigh,
I'll dry up each tear,
   And stifle each sigh:
And clothed in His word
   Will conquer my foes,
And follow my Lord
   Wherever He goes.

XI.

My friends! let us fly
   To Jesus our King;
And still as we hie,
   Of grace let us sing.
Through pleasure and pain,
   If faithful we prove,
For cots we shall gain
   A palace above.

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