Sometimes mid thorns, sometimes mid flowers,

Oft weary of its toil and strife,

Oft weary of its wintry hours,

There is one thought than all more sweet

From care my longing heart to free;

'Tis this—oh, wondrous to repeat—

That Jesus intercedes for me.

And always when the path is steep,

I cling unto this wayside rope:

Nothing can give so great relief,

Nothing can give a brighter hope.

'Tis like a stately spreading palm,

Which forms my spirit's canopy,

'Neath which I breathe the soothing balm

That Jesus intercedes for me.

And when I reach the sea of death,

To sail its silent waters o'er,

This thought shall calm my latest breath

And waft me to the golden shore.

Not only that my Savior died,

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