Away from the world and the cruel,
Away from the day and its strife;
Away from the sad and the joyful,
Away from the struggle of life.
Away through the high hush of midnight,
Away from myself am I borne,
Away to the region of music,
Where the beautiful ever is worn.
Like a strange eager thing, half-frightened,
Like the rushing of wind held back,
My soul, yearning, longing was waiting,
Strained intensely, as held on a rack.
Far away, now so near—now so far
Came a presence so painfully dear;
Away burst my soul from its longing,
Away burst my heart from the fear.
Home from those wayward wanderings,
Home from that cold foreign clime,
Home, to the arms of "Our Father,"
Where I am all His and He's mine.
December 29, 1893
Oswald Chambers, 1874-1917