FAR from my heavenly home, Far from my Saviour’s side, I often long that He would come That I may there abide.
Upon the willows, long, My harp has silent hung; How can I sing a worthy song Till Heav’n inspires my tongue?
My spirit homeward turns, There would I long to be, My heart looks up, desires and yearns That home of love to see.
Homeward I therefore press, A dark and toilsome road; When shall I pass this wilderness To reach my Lord’s abode?
Lord of my life, draw near, On Thee my hopes I cast: O guide me through this desert drear, And bring me home at last!
Henry Francis Lyte, 1793-1847‡