Mother ! will my own Jesus
Not come and take me away?
For, oh! I am so weary,
In this falling cot of clay.

Why do His chariots linger,
On these borders of unrest?
Oh! for a dove's swift pinion,
To bear me to His breast.

I long to see my Jesus,
To get my blood-bought lyre,
To sing sweet halleluias
Among the white-robed choir.
To hear the angels' welcome
That awaits me in His home,
And Maggie joining sweetly,
Dear Sissy, I'm glad you've come.

Oh! for the glorious mansion,
From sin and sorrow free;
Oh! for the band so radiant,
That walks the jasper sea.
I love you all, my dear ones,
But would not longer stay:
Mother! will my own Jesus
Not come and take me away?