10s.
Returning.
A weak and weary dove, with drooping wing,
And tired of wandering o’er this watery waste,
Jesus, my ark! once more a worthless thing,
To thee I fly, thy pardoning love to taste.
2 For since I left thy sweet, secure retreat,
In search of pleasures fair, though false and vain,
My peace—my joy have flown; no rest my feet
Have found; and now I turn to thee again!