Land of rest, for thee I sigh;|
When will the moment come,
When I shall lay my armour by,
And dwell with Christ at home?
No tranquil joys on earth I know,
No peaceful shelt'ring dome;
This world's a wilderness of woe;
This world is not my home.
To Jesus Christ I sought for rest;
He bade me cease to roam,
And fly for succor to his breast,
And he'd conduct me home.
I should at once have quit the field,
Where foes and fury roam;
But, ah! my passport was not sealed;
I could not yet go home.
When by affliction sharply tried,
I view the gaping tomb,
Although I dread death's chilling tide,
Yet still I sigh for home.
Weary of wand'ring round and round
This vale of sin and gloom,
I long to leave th' unhallowed ground,
And dwell with Christ at home.