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.
Hymnal: according to the use of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States of America, 1871
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