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, Ps 140:2 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, Ps 147:7 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. | |