And is it so—I shall be like Thy Son?
Is this the grace which He for me has won?
Father of glo­ry (thought be­yond all thought!)—
In glo­ry, to His own blest like­ness brought!

Oh, Je­sus, Lord, who loved me like to Thee?
Fruit of Thy work, with Thee, too, there to see
Thy glo­ry, Lord, while end­less ages roll,
Myself the prize and tra­vail of Thy soul.

Yet it must be: Thy love had not its rest
Were Thy re­deemed not with Thee ful­ly blest.
That love that gives not as the world, but shares
All it pos­ses­ses with its loved co-heirs.

Nor I alone; Thy loved ones all, com­plete
In glo­ry, round Thee there with joy shall meet,
All like Thee, for Thy glo­ry like Thee, Lord,
Object su­preme of all, by all ad­ored.

The heart is sa­tis­fied; can ask no more
All thought of self is now for­ev­er o’er:
Christ, its un­min­gled ob­ject, fills the heart
In blest ad­or­ing love—the end­less part.

Father of mer­cies, in Thy pre­sence bright
All this shall be un­fold­ed in the light;
Thy child­ren all, with joy Thy coun­sels know
Fulfilled; pa­tient in hope, while here be­low.