615		CM
	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.
2	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.
3	A child, when far away, may long     For home and kindred dear, And we who wait our absent Lord     May sigh till He appear.
4	May not an exile, Lord, desire     His own sweet land to see? May not a captive seek release;     A prisoner to be free?
5	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.
6	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‡