God moves in a mysterious way his wonders to perform; he plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines of never-failing skill he treasures up his bright designs, and works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take; the clouds ye so much dread are big with mercy, and shall break in blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust him for his grace; behind a frowning providence he hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast, unfolding ev’ry hour; the bud may have a bitter taste, but sweet will be the flow’r.

Blind unbelief is sure to err, and scan his work in vain; God is his own interpreter, and he will make it plain.