Return, my soul, and seek thy rest
Upon thy heav’nly Fa­ther’s breast:
Indulge me, Lord, in that re­pose,
The soul which loves Thee on­ly knows.

Lodged in Thine arms I fear no more
The tem­pest’s howl, the bil­lows’ roar;
Those storms must shake th’Al­migh­ty’s seat,
Which vio­late the saints’ re­treat.

Thy boun­ties, Lord, to me sur­mount
The power of lang­uage to re­count;
From morn­ing dawn, the set­ting sun
Sees but my work of praise be­gun.

The mer­cies, all my mo­ments bring,
Ask an eter­ni­ty to sing;
What thanks those mer­cies can suf­fice
Which thro’ eter­ni­ty shall rise?

Rich in ten thou­sand gifts pos­sessed,
In fu­ture hopes more rich­ly blessed,
I’ll sit and sing, till death shall raise
A note of more pro­por­tioned praise.