My beloved! haste away,
Sick of love, for thee I languish;
Fails my soul at thy delay,
Feels a dying lovers anguish:
Quickly, quickly, Jesus come,
O make my breast thy native home.

Great the force and pow’r of love,
Whence spring all my strong desires;
I thy presence, Lord, to prove,
Burn, consumed, with inward fires:
Quickly, quickly, Jesus come,
O make my breast thy native home.

O’er the spicy mountains fly,
Hart and roe, yea, wind out stripping,
While thou tarry’st, love, I die,
Sighing, longing, loving, weeping;
Quickly, quickly, Jesus come,
O make my breast thy native home.

Recordings 1 2 3 4