And let this feeble body fail,
And let it faint or die;
My soul shall quit the mournful vale,
And soar to worlds on high --

2 Shall join the disembodied saints,
And find its long-sought rest;
That only bliss for which it pants,
In the Redeemer's breast.

3 In hope of that immortal crown
I now the cross sustain;
And gladly wander up and down,
And smile at toil and pain.

4 I suffer on my three-score years,
Till my Deliverer come,
And wipes away his servant's tears,
And takes his exile home.

Charles Wesley, 1759.