As when the wea­ry tra­vel­er gains
The height of some o’er­look­ing hill;
His heart re­vives, if cross the plains
He eyes his home, though dist­ant still.

While he sur­veys the much loved spot,
He slights the space that lies be­tween;
His past fa­tigues are now for­got,
Because his jour­ney’s end is seen.

Thus, when the Chris­tian pil­grim views
By faith, his man­sion in the skies;
The sight his faint­ing strength re­news,
And wings his speed to reach the prize.

The thought of home his spir­it cheers,
No more he grieves for trou­bles past;
Nor any fu­ture tri­al fears,
So he may safe ar­rive at last.

Tis there, he says, I am to dwell
With Je­sus, in the realms of day;
Then I shall bid my cares fare­well,
And He will wipe my tears away.

Jesus, on Thee our hope de­pends,
To lead us on to Thine ab­ode;
Assured our home will make am­ends
For all our toil while on the road.