Jones Very (1813–1880)

WILT Thou not visit me?

The plant beside me feels Thy gentle dew;

And every blade of grass I see,

From Thy deep earth its quickening moisture drew.

Wilt Thou not visit me?

Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone;

And every hill and tree

Lends but one voice, the voice of Thee alone.

Come, for I need Thy love,

More than the flower the dew, or grass the rain;

Come, gently as Thy holy dove;

And let me in Thy sight rejoice to live again.

I will not hide from them,

When Thy storms come, though fierce may be their wrath;

But bow with leafy stem,

And strengthened follow on Thy chosen path.

Yes, Thou wilt visit me,

Nor plant nor tree Thine eye delights so well,

As when from sin set free

My spirit loves with Thine in peace to dwell.