I'm in the Maister's flock, He is my herd:
And sin' He loo'es His ain, I''ve a' that's best;
By caller burns He airts my thowless feet,
And in the guid green haughs, He bids me rest.
He kens my failin's, merks my ilka turn,
And whiles, when frae te track I gang astray,
Wi' tender care He taks me in His airms,
And sets me dooon in His richteous way,
Though death suld cuist her shadow in my gate,
And eerie seem the valley, mirk and lang;
I;m suire nae hand daur fash or daunton me,
For Ye are there, my comfort and my sang
Ye've given me meat amang my verra foes,
Ye've shoo'ered your blessin's on my worthless heid;
My cup o'joy is fu' and rinnin' owre,
My Maister's guidness, and His mercy strang,
Hae gane wi' me, and will through aa the days;
I've mair in Thee than meets my ilka need.
Till in His name I dwall for evermair -
Mine then the bliss, but He be aa the praise!
William Landles
No comments:
Post a Comment