How Far From

I hear the rising tempest moan, My failing limbs have weary grown, The flowers are shut, the streams are dried, The arid sands spread drear and wide, The night-dews fall, the winds are high, How far from home, O Lord, am I?

I would not come with hoards of gold, With glittering gems, or cumbrous mould, Nor dim my eyes with gathered dust Of empty fame, or earthly trust; But hourly ask, as lone I roam, How far from home? how far from home?

Not far! Not far! The way is dark, Frail hope hath dimm'd her glow-worm spark; The trees are dead, beneath whose shade My youth reclin'd, my childhood play'd; Red lightnings streak the troubled sky, How far from home, my God, am I?

Reach forth thy hand with pitying care, And guide me through the latest snare; Methinks e'en now its bursting beams The radiance from thy casement streams; No more I shed the pilgrim's tear, I hear thy voice, my home is near.