When the poor pris’ner through a grate

Sees others walk at large;

How does he mourn his lonely state,

And long for a discharge?

Thus I, confined in unbelief,

My loss of freedom mourn;

And spend my hours in fruitless grief,

Until my Lord return.

The beam of day, which pierces through

The gloom in which I dwell;

Only discloses to my view,

The horrors of my cell.

Ah! how my pensive spirit faints,

To think of former days!

When I could triumph with the saints,

And join their songs of praise!

But now my joys are all cut off,

In prison I am cast;

And Satan, with a cruel scoff,

Says, “Where’s your God at last?”

Dear Savior, for thy mercies sake,

My strong, my only plea,

These gates and bars in pieces break,

And set the pris’ner free!

Surely my soul shall sing to thee,

For liberty restored;

And all thy saints admire to see

The mercies of the LORD.