Exile.

I’ll spend my few remaining days,
While here ordained to roam,
As exiles do in distant lands,
I’ll think of nought but home.

Wistful upon the strand I gaze
Toward heaven, my country’s shore,
Expecting hence ere long to sail,
And sin and weep no more.

When I depart for other worlds,
What friend will cleave to me?
None, none, how well soe’er beloved—
Dear Jesus, none but Thee.

Favorite Welsh Hymns, 1854