With tearful eyes I look around;
Life seems a dark and stormy sea;
Yet, midst the gloom, I hear a sound,
A heavenly whisper, �Come to Me.�
It tells me of a place of rest;
It tells me where my soul may flee:
O to the weary, faint, oppressed,
How sweet the bidding, �Come to Me.�
When the poor heart with anguish learns
That earthly props resigned must be,
And from each broken cistern turns,
It hears the accents, �Come to Me.�
When against sin I strive in vain,
And cannot from its yoke get free,
Sinking beneath the heavy chain,
The words arrest me, �Come to Me.�
When nature shudders, loath to part
From all I love, enjoy, and see;
When a faint chill steals o�er my heart,
A sweet voice utters, �Come to Me.�
�Come, for all else must fall and die;
Earth is no resting-place for thee;
Heavenward direct thy weeping eye,
I am thy Portion; come to Me.�
O voice of mercy! voice of love!
In conflict, grief, and agony,
Support me, cheer me from above,
And gently whisper, �Come to Me.�
