Oh God, my soul would fly away
Were it not fettered by this clay;
I long to be with Thee at rest,
To lean in love upon Thy breast.
Here in this howling wilderness,
With enemies to curse, not bless,
I feel the need of Thy strong hand
To guide me to that better land.
How oft, oh God, I feel the sting
Of those whose evil tongues would wring
The heart of any trusting one
As did the Jews to Thy dear Son.
Yet in this hour of grief and pain,
Let me not curse and rail again;
But meek in prayer, Lord, let me go
And say, “They know not what they do.”
Lord, when this hard-fought battle’s o’er,
And I shall feel these stings no more,
Then let this blood-washed spirit sing
Hosannah to my Lord and King.