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(As the hart panteth after the waterbrooks, so panteth my Soul after Thee, O God!--PSALMS 42:1-2)

Locked in this prison house of clay
My Spirit pants to be away,
And mourns its low estate;
Flutters and struggles to be free,
Reaches and longs, O Lord, for Thee!
Why must it wait?


A thousand wrecks around me lie,
These all have failed to satisfy;
Saviour, I pray
To anchor on that blessed shore,
Where sin and sorrow wound no more,
Through endless day.


In yonder heaven of delight
Oh, to awake from life's dark night,
And meet my King!
Behold the beauty of His face,
The glory of His matchless grace
Forever sing!


They say this world a heaven would be
If purged of woe and misery,
Of sin and death;
Oh, vain such mockeries to pursue,
From Thee, O God, the Spirit drew
Its vital breath!


To Thee ascend its quenchless fires,
To Thee it evermore aspires;
Without Thy face
Earth might take on the hues of Heaven,
Yet would the Soul with longing riven
Pant for its natal place.


Peace, panting Soul, on holier sod
Happy forever with thy God
Thou shalt abide;
Soon these frail prison bars shall break,
The fluttering Spirit shall awake
And shall be satisfied.