When musing sorrow weeps the past,

And mourns the present pain,

’Tis sweet to think of peace at last,

And feel that death is gain.

2 ’Tis not that murmuring thoughts arise,

And dread a Father’s will;

’Tis not that meek submission flies,

And would not suffer still.

3 It is that heaven-born faith surveys

The path that leads to light,

And longs her eagle plumes to raise,

And lose herself in sight.

4 It is that troubled conscience feels

The pangs of struggling sin,

And sees, though far, the hand that heals,

And ends the strife within.

5 O, let me wing my hallowed flight

From earth-born woe and care,

And soar above these clouds of night,

My Saviour’s bliss to share.