Whom glory like a cloud doth gird around
And love angelical encompasseth.
Fly thither from the world where grief still sighs,
Where death still bides and reigns,
Fly, O my song, to Him who thee deserves,
And there relate the sorrows of His people
Who, from the good astray, still seek the good,
Like hart that panteth for the cooling stream,
Or bird imprisoned for its native air:
He from the sphere divine wherein He dwells