1 When my dear Jesus hides his smiling face,
Nor lets me feel the unction of his grace;
I feel my loss, nor can my spirit rest,
’Till with his lovely presence I am blest.

2 I mourn like one bereft of home and friend,
And often wonder where the scene will end;
Tortured with anxious care, without repose,
I feel as one immersed in gloomy woes.

3 The means of grace afford no sweet relief,
But often tend to aggravate my grief;
I cannot rest without my resting-place;
Sweet Jesus, come, and let me thee embrace.