WHEN I look back upon my former race,

     Seasons I see at which the Inward Ray

     More brightly burn’d, or guided some new way;

Truth, in its wealthier scene and nobler space

Given for my eye to range, and feet to trace,

     And next I mark, ‘twas trial did convey,

     Or grief, or pain, or strange eventful day,

To my tormented soul such larger grace.

So now, whene’er, in journeying on, I feel

The shadow of the Providential Hand,

Deep breathless stirrings shoot across my breast,

Searching to know what He will now reveal,

What sin uncloak, what stricter rule command,

And girding me to work His full behest.