Weary Of These Low Scenes Of Night

Weary of these low scenes of night,
My fainting heart grows sick of time,
Sighs for the dawn of sweet delight,
Sighs for a distant happier clime.

‘Tis just, ’tis right: thus he ordains,
Who form’d this animated clod;
That needful cares, instructive pains,
May bring the restless heart to god.

In him, my soul! behold thy rest;
Nor hope for bliss below the sky.
Come, resignation, to my breast,
And silence ev’ry plaintive sigh.

Then cheerful shall my heart survey
The toils and dangers of the road;
And patient keep the heav’nly way,
Which leads me homeward to my God.