I’ll spend my few remaining days,

While here ordained to roam,

As exiles do in distant lands,

I’ll think of nought but home.

Wistful upon the strand I gaze

Toward heaven, my country’s shore,

Expecting hence ere long to sail,

And sin and weep no more.

When I depart for other worlds,

What friend will cleave to me?

None, none, how well soe’er beloved—

Dear Jesus, none but Thee.