The Waiting Soul.

Breathe from the gentle south, O Lord, And cheer me from the north; Blow on the treasures of thy word, And call the spices forth! I wish, thou know'st, to be resign'd, And wait with patient hope; But hope delay'd fatigues the mind, And drinks the spirit up. Help me to reach the distant goal, Confirm my feeble knee; Pity the sickness of a soul That faints for love of thee. Cold as I feel this heart of mine, Yet, since I feel it so, It yields some hope of life divine Within, however low. I seem forsaken and alone, I hear the lion roar; And ev'ry door is shut but one, And that is mercy's door. There, till the dear Deliv'rer come, I'll wait with humble pray'r; An when he calls his exile home, The Lord shall find me there.