Mine Hour Is Not Yet Come
Jesus’ hour is not yet come;
Let this word thine answer be,
Pilgrim, asking for thy home,
Longing to be blessed and free.
Yet a season tarry on:
Nobly borne is nobly done. While oppressing cares and fears
Night and day no respite leave,
Still prolonged through many years,
None to help thee or relieve,
Hold the word of promise fast,
Till deliverance comes at last. Every creature hope and trust,
Every earthly prop and stay,
May be prostrate in the dust,
May have failed and passed away.
Then, when darkest falls the night,
Jesus comes, and all is light. Yea, the Comforter draws nigh
To the breaking, bursting heart;
For with tender sympathy
He has seen and felt its smart.
Through its darkest hours of ill,
He is waiting, watching still. Dost thou ask when comes His hour?
Then, when it shall aid thee best.
Trust his faithfulness and power,
Trust in him, and quiet rest.
Suffer on, and hope, and wait—
Jesus never comes too late. Blessed day, which hastens fast,
End of conflict and of sin!
Death itself shall die at last;
Heaven’s eternal joy begin.
Then eternity shall prove
God is light, and God is love.