Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore
Never tired pilgrim's limbs affected slumber more
Than my wearied sprite now longs to fly out of my troubled breast:
O come quickly, sweetest Lord, and take my soul to rest

Ever blooming are the joys of Heaven's high Paradise
Cold age deafs not there our ears nor vapour dims our eyes:
Glory there the sun outshines whose beams the blessed only see:
O come quickly, glorious Lord, and raise my sprite to thee!