I come, the Sav­ior cries,
Ye long­ing souls, I come;
Then gent­ly through the yield­ing skies,
He bears His child­ren home.

Long has th’as­pir­ing saint
Stood wait­ing for the call,
And joy­ful now with­out a plaint,
Can leave this emp­ty ball.

His cheer­ful look be­speaks,
A soul pre­pared to die;
Through all its bonds the spir­it breaks,
Nor gives a part­ing sigh.

Of God and Heav’n pos­sessed,
He now for­gets his cares;
Nor sor­row more dis­turbs his rest,
Nor sin re­vives his fears.

But care­less sin­ners, who
In slum­bers spend their days,
Shall pass through scenes of va­ri­ous woe,
In one eter­nal maze.