1 O! had I wings like a dove, I would fly
Away from this world of care;
My soul would mount to the realms on high,
And seek for a refuge there;
But is there no haven here on earth?
No hope for the wounded breast?
No favored spot where content has birth,
In which I may find a rest?
2 O, is it not written, Believe and live?
The heart by bright hope allured
Shall find the comfort these words can give,
And be by its faith assured;
Then why should we fear the cold world’s frown,
When truth to the heart has given
The light of religion to guide us on
In joy to the paths of heaven.
3 There is, there is in Thy holy word—
Thy word which can ne’er depart—
There is a promise of mercy stored
For the lowly and meek of heart:
“My yoke is easy, My burden light,
Then come unto Me for rest;”—
These, these are the words of promise stored
For the wounded and wearied breast.