O, glorious home!
The place of blessed rest on high,
For thee I sigh,
The home of Him
Who left it all, and came to earth
(For me to die,)
A babe of humble birth.

My heart is sick
With hope deferred; I've journeyed long.
The world's mad throng
Oppresseth me.
I'm wearied with its heartless mirth,
Its ribald song;
It savors all of earth.

When wilt Thou call
My name, O Lord, and bid me come
To my loved home?
This foreign shore
Is bare, and lonely, without Thee,
Who here didst roam
So patiently for me.

This empty world
Hath naught wherewith my heart to fill;
'Tis just Thy will
That holds me here,
That some desire, Lord, of Thine
I may fulfil,
Or something yet resign.

I find Thee not,
The "Man of Sorrows" midst the throng;
My soul doth long
For one sweet face.
Thine absence is the saddest strain
In all my song:
So death to me were gain.

But 'tis not home;
Its, very ways and tongue are strange;
And oh the change
On change the years
Have brought, (of tempest, cloud, and rain)
In their short range:
Thy discipline of pain.

Tho' exiled here,
By faith I have Thee in my heart,
And naught can part
What God hath joined.
Yet, Lord, I long to be at home,
Where friends ne'er part,
And sorrows ne'er can come.

My heart rebounds,
As when the homesick wanderer nears
The shore, nor fears
His loved to meet;
But eager, as the end draws nigh,
Through joyful tears,
Expectant strains the eye.

Thou wilt not chide
Me Lord, for Thou hast weaned me
From all to Thee.
Thou'st won my love,
And made my home; it is Thy heart.
I'll never be
Content from Thee apart.

H. McD.