Not Poor
Call me not poor; I nothing lack,
For lo, a voice divine
Has made me feel that I am His
And told me He is mine.
Weep not that on this weary bed,
I long must droop and pine;
Here I have learned the peace of God,
And know that He is mine.
Nor mourn that He has torn away
My idols from their shrine;
Blest be the Hand that gave, that took,
For Jesus still is mine.
Let heaven's own radiance through the storm
Of every sorrow shine,
I heave no sigh, I shed no tear,
Am His, and He is mine.