The Prisoner

I

When the poor pris’ner, through a grate,
Sees others walk at large,
How does he mourn his lonely state,
And long for a discharge!

II

Thus I, confined in unbelief,
My loss of freedom mourn;
And spend my hours in fruitless grief
Until my Lord return.

III

The beam of day, which pierces through
The gloom in which I dwell,
Only discloses to my view
The horrors of my cell.

IV

Ah! how my pensive spirit faints
To think of former days!
When I could triumph with the saints,
And join their songs of praise!

V

But now my joys are all cut off,
In prison I am cast;
And Satan, with a cruel scoff,
Says, “Where’s your God at last?”

VI

Dear Saviour, for thy mercy’s sake,
My strong, my only plea,
These gates and bars in pieces break,
And set the pris’ner free!

VII

Surely my soul shall sing to thee,
For liberty restored;
And all thy saints admire to see
The mercies of the Lord.