288    C.M.     John Newton
The Prisoner. Ps. 6. 4; 142. 7

1 When the poor prisoner, through a grate,
  Sees others walk at large,
  How does he mourn his lonely state,
  And long for a discharge!

2 Thus I, confined in unbelief,
  My loss of freedom mourn;
  And spend my hours in fruitless grief,
  Until my Lord return.

3 The beam of day which pierces through
  The gloom in which I dwell,
  Only discloses to my view

4 [Ah! how my pensive spirit faints,
  To think of former days,
  When I could triumph with the saints,
  And join their songs of praise!]

5 Dear Saviour, for thy mercy’s sake,
  My strong, my only plea,
  These gates and bars in pieces break,
  And set the prisoner free.