Far from the world, O Lord, I flee,
From strife and tu­mult far;
From scenes where Sa­tan wag­es still
His most suc­cess­ful war.

The calm re­treat, the si­lent shade,
With pray­er and praise agree;
And seem by Thy sweet boun­ty made
For those who fol­low Thee.

There, if Thy Spir­it touch the soul,
And grace her mean abode,
O with what peace, and joy, and love,
She com­munes with her God!

There, like the night­in­gale, she pours
Her so­li­tary lays;
Nor asks a wit­ness of her song,
Nor thirsts for hu­man praise.

Author and guard­ian of my life,
Sweet source of light di­vine,
And, all har­mo­ni­ous names in one,
My Sav­ior—Thou art mine!

What thanks I owe Thee, and what love,
A bound­less, end­less store,
Shall ec­ho through the realms above
When time shall be no more!