by Charlotte Elliot
Father, when thy child is dying,
On the bed of anguish lying,
Then, my every want suppling,
To me thy love display!
Ere my soul her bonds hath broken,
Grant some bright and cheering token,
That for me the words are spoken,
"Thy sins are washed away!"
When the lips are dumb that blessed me.
And withdrawn the hand that pierced me,
Then let sweeter sound arrest me,
To call my soul away!
Guide me to that world of spirits,
Where through thine atoning merits,
E'en thy weakest child inherits,
The joys which ne'er decay.
