The Waiting Soul.

A poem by William Cowper

Breathe from the gentle south, O Lord,
And cheer me from the north;
Blow on the treasures of thy word,
And call the spices forth!


I wish, thou know’st, to be resign’d,
And wait with patient hope;
But hope delay’d fatigues the mind,
And drinks the spirit up.


Help me to reach the distant goal,
Confirm my feeble knee;
Pity the sickness of a soul
That faints for love of thee.


Cold as I feel this heart of mine,
Yet, since I feel it so,
It yields some hope of life divine
Within, however low.


I seem forsaken and alone,
I hear the lion roar;
And ev’ry door is shut but one,
And that is mercy’s door.


There, till the dear Deliv’rer come,
I’ll wait with humble pray’r;
An when he calls his exile home,
The Lord shall find me there.

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