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Shall I not trust my God,


Who doth so well love me


Who, as a Father, cares so tenderly?


Shall I not lay the load


which would my weakness break,


on His strong hand, who never doth forsake?



He doth know all my grief


and all my heart’s desire;


He’ll stand by me till death, through flood and fire


and He can send relief.


My Father’s love, so free,


Till the new morning shall remain to me.



Who doth the birds supply,


Who grass, and trees, and flowers,


doth beautifully clothe, through ceaseless hours;


Who hears us ere we cry;


can He my need forget?


Nay, though He slay me, I will trust Him yet.



When I His yoke do bear,


and seek my chiefest joy


but in His righteousness and sweet employ:


He makes my soul His care;


early and late doth bless,


and crowneth work and purpose with success.



O blessed be His name!


My Father cares for me!


I can no longer unbelieving be;


all praise to Him proclaim;


I know He is my Friend


I know the Lord will love me to the end!



Octavius Winslow


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