How Far From Home

I hear the rising tempest moan,My failing limbs have weary grown,The flowers are shut, the streams are dried,The arid sands spread drear and wide,The night-dews fall, the winds are high,How far from home, O Lord, am I?

I would not come with hoards of gold,With glittering gems, or cumbrous mould,Nor dim my eyes with gathered dustOf empty fame, or earthly trust;But hourly ask, as lone I roam,How far from home? how far from home?

Not far! Not far! The way is dark,Frail hope hath dimm'd her glow-worm spark;The trees are dead, beneath whose shadeMy youth reclin'd, my childhood play'd;Red lightnings streak the troubled sky,How far from home, my God, am I?

Reach forth thy hand with pitying care,And guide me through the latest snare;Methinks e'en now its bursting beamsThe radiance from thy casement streams;No more I shed the pilgrim's tear,I hear thy voice, my home is near.