1 How dear is the thought, that the angels of God May bow their bright wings to the world they once trod; Will leave the sweet songs of the mansions above, To breathe o'er our bosoms some message of love! 2 They come, on the wings of the morning they come, Impatient to lead some poor wanderer home; 3 They come when we wander, they come when we pray, In mercy to guard us wherever we stray; |