When my dear Jesus hides his smiling face, Nor lets me feel the unction of his grace; I feel my loss, nor can my spirit rest, ’Till with his lovely presence I am blest. I mourn like one bereft of home and friend, And often wonder where the scene will end; Tortured with anxious care, without repose, I feel as one immersed in gloomy woes. The means of grace afford no sweet relief, But often tend to aggravate my grief; I cannot rest without my resting-place; Sweet Jesus, come, and let me thee embrace. I mourn like one bereft of home and friend, And often wonder where the scene will end; Tortured with anxious care, without repose, I feel as one immersed in gloomy woes. I mourn like one bereft of home and friend, And often wonder where the scene will end; Tortured with anxious care, without repose, I feel as one immersed in gloomy woes.
