This world would be a wilderness,
If banished, Lord, from Thee;
And heaven, without Thy smiling face,
Would be no heaven to me.
My Friend art Thou where’re I go,
The object of my love,
My kind Protector here below,
And my Reward above.
When foes intrude or tyrants frown,
Thou art my sure relief;
To Thee I make my sorrows known,
And tell Thee all my grief.
‘Midst rising winds and beating storms,
Reclining on Thy breast,
I find in Thee a hiding place,
And there securely rest.
~ from Hymns for the Camp, 1862
in print from Sprinkle Publications
Harrisonburg, VA
