Thou foldest me in sickness; br Thou callest through the cloud; br I batter with the thickness br Of the swathing, blinding shroud: br Oh, let me see thy face, br The only perfect grace br That thou canst show thy child. br br 0 father, being-giver, br Take off the sickness-cloud; br Saviour, my life deliver br From this dull body-shroud: br Till I can see thy face br I am not full of grace, br I am not reconciled.