Never Weather-Beaten Sail

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

Ever blooming are the joys of heav'n'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:
Oh come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to thee.