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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.

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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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