Charlotte Elliott (1789–1871)

Written for one not likely to recover

LEANING on Thee, my Guide, my Friend,

My gracious Saviour! I am blest;

Though weary, Thou dost condescend

To be my rest.

Leaning on Thee, this darkened room

Is cheered by a celestial ray:

Thy pitying smile dispels the gloom—

Turns night to day.

Leaning on Thee, my soul retires

From earthly thoughts and earthly things;

On Thee concentrates her desires;

To Thee she clings.

Leaning on Thee, with childlike faith,

To Thee the future I confide;

Each step of life’s untrodden path

Thy love will guide.

Leaning on Thee, I breathe no moan,

Though faint with languor, parched with heat

Thy will has now become my own—

Thy will is sweet.

Leaning on Thee, midst torturing pain,

With patience Thou my soul dost fill:

Thou whisperest, “What did I sustain?”

Then I am still.

Leaning on Thee, I do not dread

The havoc slow disease may make;

Thou, who for me Thy blood hast shed,

Wilt ne’er forsake.

Leaning on Thee, though faint and weak,

Too weak another voice to hear,

Thy heavenly accents comfort speak,

“Be of good cheer!”

Leaning on Thee, no fear alarms;

Calmly I stand on death’s dark brink

I feel “the everlasting arms,”

I cannot sink.