My soul amid this stormy world is like some fluttering dove,
And fain would be as swift of wing to fly to Him above.
The cords that bound my heart to earth were broken by His hand,
Before His throne I found myself a stranger in the land.
That visage marred, those sorrows deep, the vinegar, the gall—
These were the golden chains of love His captive to enthrall.
My heart is with Him on the throne, and ill can brook delay,
Each moment listening for the voice, "Rise up, and come away!”
With hope deferred, oft sick and faint, "Why tarries He?" I cry;
And should He gently chide my haste, thus would my heart reply:
"May not an exile, Lord, desire his own sweet land to see?
May not a captive seek release? a prisoner, to be free?”
I fain would strike my golden harp before the Fathers throne,
There cast my crown of righteousness, and sing what grace has done!
Ah, leave me not in this dark world a stranger still to roam:
Come, Lord, and take me to Thyself! Come, Jesus!—quickly come!