Which scorns the prospect of relief?
My Father! break the cheerless gloom,
And bid my heart its calm resume.
3 Is there an hour of peace and joy
When hope is all my soul’s employ?
My Father! still my hopes will roam,
Until they rest with thee, their home.
4 The noontide blaze, the midnight scene,
The dawn, or twilight’s sweet serene,
The glow of life, the dying hour,