The Prisoner.  Ps. 6. 4;  142. 7

J. Newton                     C.M.

When the poor prisoner, 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!]

Dear Saviour, for thy mercy’s sake,
My strong, my only plea,
These gates and bars in pieces break,
And set the prisoner free.