MY soul amid this stormy world, Looks to its home above: And longs to fly on angel’s wing, And go to Him I love.
The ties that bound my heart to earth, Were broken by His hand; When—by His Cross—I found myself A stranger in this land.
A child, when far away, may long For home and kindred dear, And we who wait our absent Lord May sigh till He appear.
May not an exile, Lord, desire His own sweet land to see? May not a captive seek release; A prisoner to be free?
O Lord and Saviour, I would know Things which no mortal knows, Search all the mystery of Thy love, The depths of all Thy woes.
A stranger here in this base world, Far from Thy glorious home, Forward I’ll look to that great day When Thou, for me, shalt come.
Robert Cleaver Chapman, 1803-1902‡