1018 L.M. Augustus Toplady
“He causeth his wind to blow.” Ps. 147. 18
1
At anchor laid, remote from home,
 
Toiling, I cry, “Sweet Spirit, come;
 
Celestial breeze, no longer stay,
 
But swell my sails, and speed my way.”
2
Fain would I mount, fain would I glow,
 
And loose my cable from below;
 
But I can only spread my sail;
 
Thou, thou must breathe the auspicious gale.