Every morn­ing the red sun
Rises warm and bright;
But the ev­en­ing cometh on,
And the dark, cold night.
There’s a bright land far away,
Where ’tis ne­ver-end­ing day.

Every spring the sweet young flow­ers
Open bright and gay,
Till the chil­ly au­tumn hours
Wither them away.
There’s a land we have not seen,
Where the trees are al­ways green.

Little birds sing songs of praise
All the sum­mer long,
But in cold­er, short­er days
They for­get their song.
There’s a place where an­gels sing
Ceaseless prais­es to their king.

Christ our Lord is ev­er near
Those who fol­low Him;
But we can­not see Him here,
For our eyes are dim;
There is a most hap­py place,
Where men al­ways see His face.

Who shall go to that bright land?
All who do the right:
Holy child­ren there shall stand
In their robes of white;
For that Heav’n, so bright and blest,
Is our ev­er­last­ing rest.