Lord, my head bums, my heart is sick,
Thy slowness wounds me to the quick.

How canst Thou stay? Think on the pace
The blood did make which Thou didst waste
When I beheld it down Thy face Trickling;
I never saw such haste.
Come, Lord, &c.

Yet if Thou stay’st, why must I stay?
What is this weary world to me?
This world of woe? – Ye clouds, away;
Away, I must get up and see.
Come, Lord, &c.

What is this world, this meat and drink,
That chains us by the teeth so fast?
This woman kind which I can wink
Into a blackness of distaste?
Come, Lord, &c.

Nothing but drought and thorn and brake,
Which way soe’er I look, I see.
Some dream of joy; but when they wake
Hungry and faint, they fly to Thee.
Come, Lord, &c.

We talk of harvests; no such things
There are, while in this world we stay;
No fruitful year, but that which brings
The last and loved, though dreadful, day.
Come, Lord, &c.

Come, dearest Lord, no longer stay,
My heart and flesh and bones do say.
Come, Lord, and show Thyself to me,
Or take my longing soul to Thee.