How simple are thy children, Lord,

How simple are thy children, Lord,
Unskilled in what they pray;
Full oft they lift a hearty word,
Yet know not what they say.

For patience when I raised a cry,
Fresh burdens made me roar;
My foolish heart would then reply,
For patience pray no more.

So much my Master seemed to blame,
I thought to leave his school;
But now I learn to blush for shame,
And see myself a fool.

I fancied patience would be brought
Before my troubles rose;
And by such granted help I thought
To triumph o'er my woes.

But Christ has cleared my misty sight,
And, taught by him, I find
That tribulations, working right,
Produce a patient mind.

When our dear Master would bestow
Much patience on his friends,
He loads their shoulders well with woe,
And thus obtains his ends.

I must expect a daily cross;
Lord, sanctify the pain;
Bid every furnace purge my dross
And yield some patient gain.