Descend from Heav’n, im­mor­tal Dove,
Stoop down and take us on Thy wings,
And mount and bear us far above
The reach of these in­fer­ior things:

Beyond, be­yond this low­er sky,
Up where eter­nal ag­es roll;
Where so­lid plea­sures ne­ver die,
And fruits im­mor­tal feast the soul.

O for a sight, a pleas­ing sight
Of our al­migh­ty Fa­ther’s throne!
There sits our Sav­ior crowned with light,
Clothed in a bo­dy like our own.

Adoring saints around Him stand,
And thrones and pow­ers be­fore Him fall;
The God shines gra­cious through the man,
And sheds sweet glo­ries on them all.

O what amaz­ing joys they feel
While to their gold­en harps they sing,
And sit on ev­ery heav’n­ly hill,
And spread the tri­umphs of their king!

When shall the day, dear Lord, ap­pear,
That I shall mount to dwell above,
And stand and bow amongst them there,
And view Thy face, and sing, and love?