917
S. M.
Not far from home.
Your harps, ye trembling saints!
Down from the willows take;
Loud to the praise of love divine,
Bid every string awake.
2 Though in a foreign land,
We are not far from home,
And, nearer to our house above,
We every moment come.
3 His grace will, to the end,
Stronger and brighter shine;
Nor present things, nor things to come,
Shall quench this spark divine.
4 When we in darkness walk,
Nor feel the heavenly flame
Then will we trust our gracious God,
And rest upon his name.
5 Blest is the man, O God!
That stays himself on thee:
Who waits for thy salvation, Lord!
Shall thy salvation see.
Toplady.