8,6,8,6

The prisoner.

When the poor pris'ner through a grate

Sees others walk at large;

How does he mourn his lonely state,

And long for a discharge?

Thus I, confined in unbelief,

My loss of freedom mourn;

And spend my hours in fruitless grief,

Until my Lord return.

The beam of day, which pierces through

The gloom in which I dwell;

Only discloses to my view,

The horrors of my cell.

Ah! how my pensive spirit faints,

To think of former days!

When I could triumph with the saints,

And join their songs of praise!

But now my joys are all cut off,

In prison I am cast;

And Satan, with a cruel scoff,
Ps 140:2

Says, "Where's your God at last?"

Dear Savior, for thy mercies sake,

My strong, my only plea,

These gates and bars in pieces break,
Ps 147:7

And set the pris'ner free!

Surely my soul shall sing to thee,

For liberty restored;

And all thy saints admire to see

The mercies of the LORD.