Kind Shepherd, Son of God, to Thee Mine eyes, my heart, so yearningly, And helpless hands are lifted. From Thee I strayed; ah, leave me not, But cleanse my soul from each dark blot, For I am sore afflicted. A wandering sheep, but now restored, Ah, bear me to Thy fold, dear Lord, And let me leave Thee never, O Thou who lovest ever! Again we find him giving expression to faith's certainty in a stanza that has become very dear to the Swedish people: Blessed, blessed he who knoweth That his faith on Thee is founded, Whom the Father's love bestoweth Of eternal grace unbounded, Jesus Christ, to every nation A Redeemer freely given, In whose Name is our salvation, And none else in earth or heaven. The poetic utterance and exalted language of Wallin's hymns made him the hymnist _par excellence_ for festival days, as witness the quotation above from his Christmas hymn and the following stanza from his Ascension hymn: To realms of glory I behold My risen Lord returning; While I, a stranger on the earth, For heaven am ever yearning. Far from my heavenly Father's home, 'Mid toil and sorrow here I roam. His metrical version of the _Te Deum Laudamus_ is also an impressive example of the poetic genius of this master psalmist: Jehovah, Thee we glorify, Ruler upon Thy throne on high! O let Thy Word Through all the earth be heard. Holy, holy, holy art Thou, O Lord! Thou carest gently for Thy flock; Thy Church, firm-founded on the Rock, No powers dismay Until Thy dreadful day. Holy, holy, holy art Thou, O Lord! All nations, in her fold comprised, Shall bow their knees unto the Christ, All tongues shall raise Their orisons and praise: Holy, holy, holy art Thou, O Lord! Around Thy throne the countless throng At last in triumph swell the song, When Cherubim Shall answer Seraphim: Holy, holy, holy art Thou, O Lord! Although a hymn usually loses much of its original expression in translation, something of the rare beauty in Wallin's poetry is still apparent in the following: Where is the Friend for whom I'm ever yearning? My longing grows when day to night is turning; And though I find Him not as day recedeth, My heart still pleadeth. His hand I see in every force and power, Where waves the harvest and where blooms the flower; In every breath I draw, my spirit burneth: His love discerneth. When summer winds blow gently, then I hear Him; Where sing the birds, where rush the streams, I'm near Him; But nearer still when in my heart He blesses Me with caresses. O where such beauty is itself revealing In all that lives, through all creation stealing, What must the Source be whence it comes, the Giver? Beauty forever!