III.

No longer fly thy kite, Lord; draw me home. Thou pull'st the string through all the distance bleak; Lord, I am nearing thee; O Lord, I come; Thy pulls grow stronger and the wind grows weak.

In thy remodelling hands thou tak'st thy kite; A moment to thy bosom hold'st me fast. Thou flingest me abroad:—lo, in thy might A strong-winged bird I soar on every blast!