Long did I toil, and knew no earth­ly rest;
Far did I rove, and found no cer­tain home;
At last I sought them in His shel­ter­ing breast,
Who opes His arms, and bids the wea­ry come.
With Him I found a home, a rest di­vine;
And I since then am His, and He is mine.

Yes, He is mine! and naught of earth­ly things,
Not all the charms of plea­sure, wealth or pow­er,
The fame of he­roes, or the pomp of kings,
Could tempt me to fo­rgo His love an hour.
Go, worth­less world, I Cry, with all that’s thine!
Go! I my Sav­ior’s arm, and He is mine.

The good I have is from His stores sup­plied,
The ill is on­ly what He deems the best.
He for my friend, I’m rich with naught be­side;
And poor with­out Him, though of all pos­sessed.
Changes may come—I take, or I re­sign,
Content, while I am His, while He is mine.

Whate’er may change, in Him no change is seen,
A glo­ri­ous Sun that wanes not nor de­clines;
Above the clouds and storms He walks se­rene,
And on His peo­ple’s in­ward dark­ness shines:
All may de­part—I fret not, nor re­pine,
While I my Sav­ior’s am, while He is mine.

He stays me fall­ing; lifts me up when down;
Reclaims me wan­der­ing; guards from ev­ery foe;
Plants on my worth­less brow the vic­tor’s crown,
Which in re­turn before His feet I throw,
Grieved that I can­not bet­ter grace His shrine,
Who deigns to own me His, as He is mine.

While here, alas! I know but half His love,
But half dis­cern Him, and but half adore;
But when I meet Him in the realms above,
I hope to love Him bet­ter, praise Him more,
And feel, and tell, amid the choir di­vine,
How ful­ly I am His, and He is mine.