The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley

How happy is the pilgrim's lot,
How free from every anxious thought,
From worldly hope and fear!
Confined to neither court nor cell,
His soul disdains on earth to dwell,
He only sojourns here.

His happiness in part is mine,
Already saved from self-design,
From every creature-love!
Bless'd with the scorn of finite good,
My soul is lighten'd of its load,
And seeks the things above.

The things eternal I pursue,
A happiness beyond the view
Of those that basely pant
For things by nature felt and seen;
Their honours, wealth, and pleasures mean,
I neither have, nor want.

I have no sharer of my heart,
To rob my Saviour of a part,
And desecrate the whole:
Only betroth'd to Christ am I,
And wait His coming from the sky,
To wed my happy soul.

I have no babes to hold me here,
But children more securely dear
For mine I humbly claim:

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Better than daughters, or than sons,
Temples divine of living stones
Inscribed with Jesu's name.

No foot of land do I possess,
No cottage in this wilderness;
A poor wayfaring man,
I lodge awhile in tents below,
Or gladly wander to and fro,
Till I my Canaan gain.

Nothing on earth I call my own,
A stranger, to the world unknown,
I all their goods despise;
I trample on their whole delight,
And seek a country out of sight,
A country in the skies.

There is my house and portion fair,
My treasure and my heart is there,
And my abiding home:
For me my elder brethren stay,
And angels beckon me away,
And Jesus bids me come.

I come, Thy servant, Lord, replies,
I come to meet Thee in the skies,
And claim my heavenly rest:
Now let the pilgrim's journey end,
Now, O my Saviour, Brother, Friend,
Receive me to Thy breast.

University of Virginia Library

HYMN LI. THE PILGRIM.