1 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 mumuring 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 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!
Text Information | |
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First Line: | When musing sorrow weeps the past |
Meter: | C. M. |
Language: | English |
Publication Date: | 1867 |
Topic: | Man a Saint: In Bodily and Spiritual Trouble |