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.