Breathe From The Gentle South, O Lord, And Cheer Me From The North; Blow On The Treasures Of Thy Word, And Call The Spices Forth! I Wish, Thou Know'St, To Be Resign'D, And Wait With Patient Hope; But Hope Delay'D Fatigues The Mind, And Drinks The Spirit Up. Help Me To Reach The Distant Goal, Confirm My Feeble Knee; Pity The Sickness Of A Soul That Faints For Love Of Thee. Cold As I Feel This Heart Of Mine, Yet, Since I Feel It So, It Yields Some Hope Of Life Divine Within, However Low. I Seem Forsaken And Alone, I Hear The Lion Roar; And Ev'Ry Door Is Shut But One, And That Is Mercy'S Door. There, Till The Dear Deliv'rer Come, I'll Wait With Humble Pray'R; An When He Calls His Exile Home, The Lord Shall Find Me There.