With tear­ful eyes I look around;
Life seems a dark and stor­my sea;
Yet, midst the gloom, I hear a sound,
A heav­en­ly whis­per, Come to Me.

It tells me of a place of rest;
It tells me where my soul may flee:
O to the wea­ry, faint, op­pressed,
How sweet the bid­ding, Come to Me.

When the poor heart with ang­uish learns
That earth­ly props re­signed must be,
And from each brok­en cis­tern turns,
It hears the ac­cents, Come to Me.

When against sin I strive in vain,
And can­not from its yoke get free,
Sinking be­neath the hea­vy chain,
The words ar­rest me, Come to Me.

When na­ture shud­ders, loath to part
From all I love, en­joy, and see;
When a faint chill steals o’er my heart,
A sweet voice ut­ters, Come to Me.

Come, for all else must fall and die;
Earth is no rest­ing-place for thee;
Heavenward di­rect thy weep­ing eye,
I am thy por­tion; come to Me.

O voice of mer­cy! voice of love!
In con­flict, grief, and ago­ny,
Support me, cheer me from above,
And gent­ly whis­per, Come to Me.