The Christian 's hope.

AND let this feeble body fail, And let it faint or die: My soul shall quit the mournful vale And soar to worlds on high; Shall join the disembodied saints, And find its long sought rest, That only bliss for which it pants, On the Redeemer's breast.

In hope of that immortal crown, I now the cross sustain; And gladly wander up and down, And smile at toil and pain; I suffer on my threescore years, Till my deliv'rer come, To wipe away his servant's tears, And take his exile home.