Scripture Verse

You will be called Hepzibah, and your land Beulah. Isaiah 62:4


Edgar P. Stites (1836–1921)

Words: Ed­gar P. Stites, 1876.

Music: John R. Swe­ney (🔊 pdf nwc).

John R. Sweney (1837–1899)

Origin of the Hymn

It was in 1876 that I wrote ‘Beu­lah Land.’ I could write on­ly two vers­es and the cho­rus, when I was ov­er­come and fell on my face. That was one Sun­day. On the fol­low­ing Sun­day I wrote the third and fourth vers­es, and again I was so in­flu­enced by emo­tion that I could on­ly pray and weep.

The first time it was sung was at the re­gu­lar Mon­day morn­ing meet­ing of Me­tho­dists in Phi­la­del­phia. Bi­shop Mc­Cabe sang it to the as­sem­bled min­is­ters. Since then it is known wher­ev­er re­li­gious peo­ple con­gre­gate. I have ne­ver re­ceived a cent for my songs. Per­haps that is why they have had such a wide po­pu­la­ri­ty. I could not do work for the Mas­ter and re­ceive pay for it.

Edgar Stites

First sung at Ocean Grove, New Jers­ey, at a great ga­ther­ing of Me­tho­dists, this hymn at once be­came ve­ry po­pu­lar. It has been sung in ev­ery land where the name of Christ is known.

The sec­re­ta­ry of the Young Men’s Chris­tian As­so­cia­tion at Ply­mouth, Eng­land, wrote me a beau­ti­ful sto­ry of a young la­dy, who sang it on her dy­ing bed as she passed in­to the land that is fair­er than day.

I sang this fa­vo­rite song ov­er the dead bo­dy of my friend, Mr. Swe­ney, at the church of which he was a lead­ing member, in West Ches­ter, Penn­syl­van­ia, on the day of his bu­ri­al.

Sankey, pp. 135–36


I’ve reached the land of corn and wine,
And all its riches free­ly mine;
Here shines un­dimmed one bliss­ful day,
For all my night has passed away.


O Beu­lah Land, sweet Beu­lah Land,
As on thy high­est mount I stand,
I look away across the sea,
Where man­sions are pre­pared for me,
And view the shin­ing glo­ry shore,
My Heav’n, my home for­ev­er more!

My Sav­ior comes and walks with me,
And sweet com­mun­ion here have we;
He gent­ly leads me by His hand,
For this is Hea­ven’s bor­der land.


A sweet per­fume up­on the breeze,
Is borne from ev­er ver­nal trees,
And flow’rs, that ne­ver fad­ing grow
Where streams of life for­ev­er flow.


The ze­phyrs seem to float to me,
Sweet sounds to Hea­ven’s me­lo­dy,
As an­gels with the white robed throng
Join in the sweet re­demp­tion song.