I hear the rising tempest moan,
My failing limbs have weary grown,
The flowers are shut, the streams are dried,
The arid sands spread drear and wide,
The night-dews fall, the winds are high,
How far from home, O Lord, am I?
I would not come with hoards of gold,
With glittering gems, or cumbrous mould,
Nor dim my eyes with gathered dust
Of empty fame, or earthly trust;
But hourly ask, as lone I roam,
How far from home? how far from home?
Not far! Not far! The way is dark,
Frail hope hath dimm'd her glow-worm spark;
The trees are dead, beneath whose shade
My youth reclin'd, my childhood play'd;
Red lightnings streak the troubled sky,
How far from home, my God, am I?
Reach forth thy hand with pitying care,
And guide me through the latest snare;
Methinks e'en now its bursting beams
The radiance from thy casement streams;
No more I shed the pilgrim's tear,
I hear thy voice, my home is near.