Book III · Hymn 34 · The Prisoner

John Newton

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.