ON THE DEATH OF GILBERT, BISHOP OF CHICHESTER, WHO CONFIRMED ME.
COME home, dear patriarch, a gentle voice did cry,
Come home, to realms of purer bliss;—
Lay all thy poor frail mortal garments by,
To seek a holier world than this.
Come home, to realms of purer bliss;—
Lay all thy poor frail mortal garments by,
To seek a holier world than this.
There is a land of light beyond so fair,
A city mortal hand ne'er framed;
The Lamb of God in glory ruleth there,
And heaven's whole host adore His name!
A city mortal hand ne'er framed;
The Lamb of God in glory ruleth there,
And heaven's whole host adore His name!
Come home, dear patriarch, why should'st thou wait?
Thy Father's house hath room for thee:
Thou art His child, all cares of future fate
From thee His grace can free!
Thy Father's house hath room for thee:
Thou art His child, all cares of future fate
From thee His grace can free!
