Serenely dwell the heirs of grace
In ev­ery age and clime and place,
Supported by the firm em­brace
Of ev­er­last­ing arms.
Though they are pil­grims far from home,
Who seek a ci­ty yet to come,
They camp each night, wher­e’er they roam,
In ev­er­last­ing arms.

When threat­en­ing foes make loud pre­tense
Of num­bers vast and strength im­mense,
They ev­er find a sure de­fense
In ev­er­last­ing arms.
They dread no judg­ment day of ire,
Undying worm, and quench­less fire;
But find the shel­ter they re­quire
In ev­er­last­ing arms.

And when they reach the Jor­dan’s brink,
Back from its wave they need not shrink;
They per­ish not, but on­ly sink
In ev­er­last­ing arms.
In Heav’n they walk at li­ber­ty,
From Sa­tan, sin, and death set free;
Abiding through eter­ni­ty
In ev­er­last­ing arms.