1 When musing sorrow weeps the past,
And mourns the present pain,
How 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-taught faith surveys
The path that leads to light,
And longs her eagle plumes to raise,
And lose herself in sight.

4 It is that hope with ardour glows
To see Him face to face,
Whose dying love no language knows
Sufficient art to trace.

5 It is that tortur'd conscience feels
The pangs of struggling sin;
Sees, though afar, the Hand that heals,
And ends her war within.

6 O let me wing my hallow'd flight
From earth-born woe and care,
And soar above these clouds of night
My Saviour's bliss to share.