THERE is no roof in all the world, of palace or of cot, That hideth not some burdened heart, nigh breaking for its lot; The earth is sunk in pain and tears, and closer draws the gloom; And balm for cure there can be none till Christ the Lord shall come. O morn, when, like a summer bird, my spirit shall go free, When I shall see thee as thou art, and be, my God, like Thee! Like Thee, like Thee! all spotless white—this heart, this will, as Thine! O love of God, O blood of Christ, O grace and power divine! My Saviour, who doth know the thirst the longing spirit feels— O Bridegroom, now so long afar, why stay Thy chariot wheels? Were ever eyes so dim with grief, breasts so oppressed with care? Did ever hearts so yearn to catch Thy whisper from the air? Thou lonely one, lift up thy head, array thee for the feast; He that hath tarried long is near—the glow is in the east! O Morning Star, so soon to lead Thy chosen one away! O Sun of Righteousness, bring in the everlasting day!