Oft have I sat in sec­ret sighs
To feel my flesh de­cay;
Then groaned aloud with fright­ed eyes,
To view the tot­ter­ing clay.

But I for­bid my sor­rows now,
Nor dares the flesh com­plain;
Diseases bring their pro­fits, too;
The joy o’er­comes the pain.

My cheer­ful soul now all the day
Sits wait­ing here and sings;
Looks thro’ ru­ins of her clay,
And prac­tices her wings.

Faith al­most chang­es in­to sight,
While from afar she spies
Her fair in­her­it­ance, in light
Above cre­at­ed skies.

Had but the pri­son walls been strong
And firm, with­out a flaw,
In dark­ness she had dwelt too long
And less of glo­ry saw.

But now the ev­er­last­ing hills
Through ev­ery chink ap­pear,
And some­thing of the joy she feels
While she’s a pri­son­er here.

Bright Hea­ven rushes sweet­ly in
At all the gap­ing flaws;
Of end­less bliss are vi­sions seen;
And na­tive air she draws.

O may these walls stand tot­tering still,
The breach­es ne­ver close,
If I must here in dark­ness dwell,
And all this glo­ry lose!

O ra­ther let this flesh de­cay;
The ru­ins wider grow,
Till, glad to see th’en­larg­èd way,
I stretch my pin­ions through.