Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore.
Never tired pilgrim`s limbs affected slumber more,
Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:
O come quickly,... Читать дальше

Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore.
Never tired pilgrim`s limbs affected slumber more,
Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest.

Ever blooming are the joys of Heaven`s high Paradise.
Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the sun outshines whose beams the blessed only see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to thee!

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