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I hear the rising tempest moan,
My failing limbs have weary grown,
The flowers are shut, the streams are dried,
The arid sands spread drear and wide,
The night-dews fall, the winds are high,
How far from home, O Lord, am I?

I would not come with hoards of gold,
With glittering gems, or cumbrous mould,
Nor dim my eyes with gathered dust
Of empty fame, or earthly trust;
But hourly ask, as lone I roam,
How far from home? how far from home?

Not far! Not far! The way is dark,
Frail hope hath dimm'd her glow-worm spark;
The trees are dead, beneath whose shade
My youth reclin'd, my childhood play'd;
Red lightnings streak the troubled sky,
How far from home, my God, am I?

Reach forth thy hand with pitying care,
And guide me through the latest snare;
Methinks e'en now its bursting beams
The radiance from thy casement streams;
No more I shed the pilgrim's tear,
I hear thy voice, my home is near.

This work was published before January 1, 1924, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.