1 'Mid scenes of affliction, with sorrow oppressed,
How oft have I sighed for the season of rest
When no more in this wilderness world I shall roam.
But find in the bosom of Jesus a home
Home sweet home;
But find in the bosom of Jesus a home.

2 No spot on this earth can give permanent bliss,
No home for a stranger and pilgrim is this;
But far in yon azure, the star-spangled dome,
We'll find in the bosom of Jesus a home.

3 This hope cheers the prospect that's gloomy and drear,
And points to the haven of rest that is near;
O there, in sweet fields of delight we shall roam,
And find in the bosom of Jesus a home.