Oh, had I, my Saviour, the wings of a dove,
How soon would I soar to Thy presence above!

Oh, had I, my Saviour, the wings of a dove,
How soon would I soar to Thy presence above!
How soon would I flee where the weary have rest,
And hide all my cares in thy sheltering breast.

I flutter, I struggle, and long to be free;
I feel me a captive while banished from Thee.
A pilgrim and stranger the desert I roam;
And look on to Heaven, and fain would be home.

Ah, there the wild tempest for ever shall cease;
No billow shall ruffle that haven of peace.
Temptation and trouble alike shall depart,
All tears from the eye, and all sin from the heart.

Soon, soon may this Eden of promise be mine!
Rise, bright sun of glory, no more to decline!
Thy light, yet unrisen, the wilderness cheers,
Oh, what will it be, when the fulness appears?

~ Henry Francis Lyte

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