Far from my thoughts, vain world, be­gone,
Let my re­li­gious hours alone:
Fain would my eyes my Sav­ior see;
I wait a vi­sit, Lord, from Thee.

My heart grows warm with ho­ly fire,
And kin­dles with a pure de­sire:
Come, my dear Je­sus, from above,
And feed my soul with heav’n­ly love.

The trees of life im­mor­tal stand
In frag­rant rows at Thy right hand;
And in sweet mur­murs, by their side,
Rivers of bliss per­pe­tu­al glide.

Haste, then, but with a smil­ing face,
And spread the table of Thy grace;
Bring down a taste of fruit di­vine,
And cheer my heart with sac­red wine.

Blest Je­sus, what de­li­cious fare!
How sweet Thy en­ter­tain­ments are!
Never did an­gels taste above
Redeeming grace, and dy­ing love.

Hail, great Im­ma­nu­el, all di­vine!
In Thee Thy Fa­ther’s glo­ries shine;
Thou bright­est, sweet­est, fair­est One,
That eyes have seen or an­gels known.