Hymnal: The Pilgrim's Song
Date: 1814
Compiler: Elias Smith
Publisher/Printer: Elias Smith
First Line: I'm tir'd of visits modes and forms
Topic: <no topic given>
Writer: <no first name given> <no last name given>
Composer:
Tune:
Hymn Number: 4
Page Number: 006, click to see hymnal pages
LyicsI'm tir'd of visits, modes, and forms,
And flatt'ries paid to fellow worms,
Their conversation cloys;
Their vain amours and empty stuff!
But I can ne'er enjoy enough,
Of thy best company, my Lord,
Thou life of all my joys.
When he begins to tell his love,
Through ev'ry vein my passions move,
The captives of his tongue;
In midnight shades, on frosty ground,
I could attend the pleasing sound,
Nor shall I feel December cold;
Nor think the darkness long.
There while I hear the Son of God,
Count o'er the sins (a heavy load)
He bore upon the tree;
Inward I blush with secret shame,
And weep, and love, and bless the name,
That knew not guilt nor grief his own,
But bore it all for me.
Next he describes the thorns he wore,
And talks his bloody passions o'er,
Till I am drown'd in tears;
Yet with the sympathetic smart,
There's a strange joy beats round my heart!
The cursed tree has blessings in't,
My sweetest balm it bears.
I hear the glorious suff'rer tell,
How on his cross he vanquish'd hell,
And all the pow'rs beneath,
Transported and inspir'd my tongue,
Attempts his triumphs in a song;
How has the serpent lost his sting!
And where's thy victory, death?
But when he shews his hands and heart,
With those dear prints of dying smart,
He sets my soul on fire;
Not the beloved John could rest,
With more delight upon that breast,
Nor Thomas pry into those wounds,
With more intense desire.
Kindly he opes to me his ear,
And bids me pour my sorrows there,
And tell him all my pains;
Thus while I case my burden'd heart,
In ev'ry woe he bears a part,
His arms embrace me, and his hands,
My drooping head sustains.
Fly from my thoughts, all human things,
And sporting swains, and fighting kings,
With tales of earthly love;
My soul distains those worldly snares,
Which always dwell with worldly cares,
Thine arms, my God, are sweeter lands,
Nor can my heart remove.