1 Still out of the deepest abyss
Of trouble I mournfully cry,
And pine to recover my peace,
And see my Redeemer and die.
I cannot, I cannot forbear
These passionate longings for home;
O when shall my spirits be there?
O when will the messenger come?
2 Thy nature I long to put on,
Thine image on earth to regain,
And then in the grave to lay down
My burden of body and pain;
O Jesus in pity draw near,
And lull me to sleep on thy breast,
Appear to my rescue, appear
And gather me into thy rest.
3 To take a poor fugitive in,
The arm of thy mercy display,
And give me to rest from all sin,
And bear me triumphant away:
Away from a world of distress,
Away to the mansions above,
A heaven of seeing thy face,
A heaven of feeling thy love.
The Christian's duty, exhibited in a series of hymns, 1791