My heart is pain’d within me. When shall I
Away from all these mournful sorrows fly—
The ills of life—the ceaseless care and toil,
Spontaneous growth of earth’s polluted soil?
How oft my spirit plumes her eager wings,
To seek a refuge from these tiresome things!
But like a wounded bird, she strives in vain,
Then sinks desponding to the earth again.
My heavenly Father! may my refuge be
Thine own almighty wings o’ershadowing me;
Thy shelter o’er my struggling spirit cast,
Till these calamities be overpast.
Then trusting in the covert of thy wings—
A peaceful shade—whence healing virtue springs,
I’ll lay me down, content to live or die,
And wait till thou shalt bear my soul on high.