1 O 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.
2 I flutter, I struggle, I pant to get free;
I feel me a captive while banished from Thee:
A pilgrim and stranger, the desert I roam,
And look on to heaven, and long to be home.
|First Line:||O had I, my Saviour, the wings of a dove|
|Title:||Longing for Rest|
|Author:||Rev. Henry Francis Tyte|