The beast of fear is drawing near;
Dear Lord what shall I do?
I'm weak and poor and harrowed here,
But I must turn to You.
My faith is small, my strength is gone,
I have no hope, no gain;
Wallowing here, I see the One:
He took my sin and shame.
My brokenness, my finite mind,
Is lost in His great love;
And looking up I see the cross,
With fear nailed up above.
He put it there, writ' with His blood,
And gave His all, for me,
So I could rest with peace of mind,
Knowing that I am free.