When sorrows encompass me round,
And many distresses I see,
Astonished, I cry, can a mortal be found,
Surrounded with trouble like me?

Few seasons of peace I enjoy,
And they are succeeded by pain;
If e'er a few moments of praise I employ,
I have hours and days to complain.

O when will my sorrows subside,
O when will my sufferings cease,
O when to the bosom of Christ be conveyed
In mansions of glory and bliss?

May I be prepared for that day
When Jesus shall bid me remove;
That I may in rapture go shouting away
To the arms of my heav'nly love.

My spirit to glory conveyed,
My body laid low in the ground;
I wish not a tear at my grave to be shed,
Let all join in shouting around.