The Waiting Soul

by
 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 knowest, to be resign'd,
And wait with patient hope;
But hope delay'd fatigues the mind,
And drinks the spirits 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 every door is shut but one, And that is Mercy's door.
There, till the dear Deliverer come, I'll wait with humble prayer; And when He calls His exile home, The Lord shall find him there.

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