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‡