Your harps, ye trembling saints,
Down from the willows take,
Loud to the praise of love divine,
Bid every string awake.
Though in a foreign land,
We are not far from home,
And nearer to our house above
We every moment come.

His grace will to the end
Stronger and brighter shine;
Nor present things, nor things to come,
Shall quench the spark devine,
Fastened within the vail,
Hope be your anchor strong;
His loving Spirit, the sweet gale
That wafts you smooth along.

Or, should the surges rise,
And peace delay to come;
Blest is the sorrow, kind the storm,
That drived us nearer home.
The people of His choice
He will not cast away;
yet do not always here expect
On Tabor's Mount to stay.

When we in darkness walk,
Nor feel the heavenly flame,
Then is the time to trust or God,
And rest upon His name.
Soon shall our doubts and fears
Subside at His control,
His loving-kindness shall break through
The midnight of the soul.

No wonder, when His love
Pervades your kindling breast.
You wish for ever to retain
The heart-transporting Guest.
Yet learn, in every state,
To make His will your own:
And when the joys of sense depart,
To walk by faith alone.

By anxious fear depressed,
When, from the deep, ye mourn,
"Lord, why so hasty to depart,
So tedious in return?"
Still on His plighted love,
At all events rely:
The very hidings of His face
Shall train thee up to joy.

Wait, till he shadows flee:
Wait, thy appointed hour:
Wait, till the Bridegroom of thy soul
Reveals His love with power.
The time of love will come.
When thou shalt clearly see,
Not only that He shed His blood,
But that it flowed for thee!

Tarry His leisure then,
Although He seem to stay;
A moments's intercourse with Him,
Thy grief will over-pay.
Blest is the man, O God,
That stays himself on Thee!
Who waits for Thy salvation,Lord,
Shall Thy salvation see.

 A.M. Toplady