My soul, amid this stormy world,
Is like some flutter'd dove:
And fain would be as swift of wing,
To flee to Him I love.
The cords that bound my heart to earth
Were broken by His hand;
Before His cross-I found myself
A stranger in the land.
That visage marr'd, those sorrows deep,
The vinegar, the gall,
These were His golden chains of love,
His captive to enthrall.
My heart is with Him on the throne,
And ill can brook delay;
Each moment list'ning for the voice,
" Rise up, and come away."
With hope deferr'd, oft sick and faint,
"Why tarries He?" I cry;
And should my Savior chide my haste,
Sure I could make reply
" May not an exile, Lord, desire
His own sweet land to see?
May not a captive seek release?
A prisoner to be free?
" A child, when far away, may long
For home and kindred dear;
And she that waits her absent Lord,
Must sigh till He appear.
" I would my Lord and Savior know,
That which no measure knows;
Would search the mystery of Thy love,
The depth of all Thy woes.
" I fain would strike my golden harp
Before the. Father's throne,
There cast my crown of righteousness,
And sing what grace hath 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!"