p. 1 | Untitled article by Etta Booth

The Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Third-day, January 28, 1868

COMPLAINT.

By Etta Booth

O my Father, come very near, I am faint, the way is dark, I want to whisper in thine ear. The thorns that pierce my aching, wounded feet, And blood stained leave the roughness that I meet, Is more than trusting patience meekly bore: O help, my Father! I can bear no more.

Oh! yes my child, I hear thy fervent cry, In earnest need I still am very nigh, The thorns that pierce may bleed thy stubborn heart, And lend thee grace to still endure the smart.

Higher the surges darkly roll’d, Didst see my Father? Then O come, And quell the waves so fierce and cold.

Mine enemies against me rise and say, “Where is thy God,” where is thy hope and stay: My soul doth languish. All the day I mourn, Because of the oppression I have borne.

The waves may wash thee, cleanse thee, purify Thy life for Him whose coming draweth nigh; Thine enemies may break the fet’ring ties And raise thy love from earth unto the skies.

I’m weary of my life, Yes weary of this weight and pain, Where all is sinfulness and strife; The winds blow fierce, the tempest rages high, Dark clouds their blackness gather in the sky; I look for help, I trust my God in vain, Why wilt thou not relieve me of this pain?

Trust thou in me, my child, I love thee still, Trust that to save thee I must do my will, Affliction’s pain, from mercy’s cup I pour, The gold that’s purified I purge no more.

ETTA BOOTH.