My love for thee is aught that holds me here,
Else I should fly to Heaven’s shore straitway;
Thou art my world and all I counteth dear.
Without a backward glance or future fear,
I’d rise and sing to greet Eternal Day;
My love for thee is aught that holds me here.
Though precious little present giveth cheer,
This comfort have I long as I must stay;
Thou art my world and all I counteth dear.
When sweetly angel’s songs fall on mine ear,
And beckon me come home, God’s child to play;
My love for thee is aught that holds me here.
If longing heart should cause these eyes to tear,
Thou must believeth loving lips that say;
Thou art my world and all I counteth dear.
But if doing thus would make thy soul’s path clear:
This soul with willing zeal in Hell woulds’t lay.
My love for thee is aught that holds me here;
Thou art my world and all I counteth dear!