|
A light in the east, the night turns to dawn. A sigh for the weary as strength is drawn From whom all glory and power belong, For when I am weak, O then am I strong. Drops of rain in the midst of dreadful drought, O Lord, I am filled from Thy open spout. Sympathy for weakness of great and least, Thou sharest with me, O Thou my High Priest. My Shepard, My Guide, My Tower of Strength, Thy comfort lacks measure, by width, height, length. O joy through my trials, they will not be long, For when I am weak, O then am I strong. Not of my own, Lord. Not by my own, Lord. Not for my own, Lord. Not on my own, Lord.
|