ATHIRST FOR GOD.

My soul, amid this stormy world,
Is like some flutter'd dove,
And fain would be as swift of wing
To flee to Him I love.

The cords that bound my heart to earth
Are broken by His hand;
Before His cross I found myself
A stranger in the land.

That visage marred, those sorrows deep,
The vinegar and gall—
These were His golden chains of love,
His captive to enthrall.

I would, my Lord and Saviour, know
That which no measure knows,
Would search the mystery of Thy love,
The depth of all Thy woes.

My heart is with Him on His throne,
And ill can brook delay :
Each moment list'ning for the voice,
" Eise up and come away 1"

I fain would strike my harp Divine
Before the Father's throne ;
There cast my crown of righteousness,
And sing what grace has done.

CHAPMAN.