“He causeth his wind to blow.” Ps. 147. 18
A. M. Toplady L.M.
1
At anchor laid, remote from home,
Toiling, I cry, “Sweet Spirit, come;
Celestial breeze, no longer stay,
But swell my sails, and speed my way.”
2
Fain would I mount, fain would I glow,
And loose my cable from below;
But I can only spread my sail;
Thou, thou must breathe the auspicious gale.
