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Longing for rest.
Psalm 55:6, 7.

W. T. Moore.

O that I had wings like a dove,

For, then, would I soon be at rest;

I’d fly to the mansions above;

The home of the pure and the blest;

The place where no sorrow or tears

Can ever my pleasures destroy;

But where through eternity’s years,

I’ll drink from an ocean of Joy!

2 The clouds that now hang o’er my soul,

Make dark all the pathway of life;

While thunders unceasingly roll

In storms of deep anger and strife;

I hope for some bright ray to beam

From clouds where there yet may be light,

But only the lightning’s red gleam

Is seen through the darkness of night.

3 I try to be humble and meek,

Leave all to my Saviour’s own will;

For, He to the tempest can speak,

The winds will obey and be still;

But now my soul flutters and cries,

And longs to be soaring away,

From darkness and gloom, to the skies,

The regions of bright, endless day.

4 Dear Saviour, O, let me come home,

And rest on thy bosom in peace;

No more from thy presence to roam—

Then tempests and storms shall all cease.


I’ll sing of thy wonderful ways,

With all of the glorified throng—

For ever and ever, thy praise,

Shall be the one theme of my song.

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