Who can know the purpose of the King,

or probe His mind to hear His hidden ways?

Who can tell the reason for their days,

the sighs or joys their earthly song will sing?

They come in anguished sorrow oft to ring

their pleas and prayers before the throne and gaze

steadfastly waiting, ready for the blaze

of answered prayer He never seems to bring.

And yet they know the seal their sovereign bears,

the print and press of providential stress

that leaves His gracious mark and image, clear.

And through the empty gape of midnight tears

they trust the grace that bought their righteousness,

the hand of love that brought their Savior near.

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