The poem
Breathe from the gentle south, O Lord, And cheer me from the north; Blow on the treasures of thy word, And call the spices forth!
I wish, Thou knowest, to be resign'd, And wait with patient hope; But hope delay'd fatigues the mind, And drinks the spirits up.
Help me to reach the distant goal; Confirm my feeble knee; Pity the sickness of a soul That faints for love of Thee!
Cold as I feel this heart of mine, Yet, since I feel it so, It yields some hope of life divine Within, however low.
I seem forsaken and alone, I hear the lion roar; And every door is shut but one, And that is Mercy's door.
There, till the dear Deliverer come, I'll wait with humble prayer; And when He calls His exile home, The Lord shall find him there.