Fly, ye sea­sons, fly still fast­er;
Let the glo­ri­ous day come on,
When we shall be­hold our mas­ter
Seated on His hea­ven­ly throne;
Then the Sav­ior
Shall des­cend to claim His own.

What is earth with all its trea­sures,
To the joy the Gos­pel brings?
Well may we re­sign its plea­sures,
Jesus gives us bet­ter things;
All His peo­ple
Draw from Hea­ven’s eter­nal springs.

But if here we taste of plea­sure,
What will Hea­ven itself af­ford?
There our joy will know no mea­sure;
There we shall be­hold our Lord;
There His people
Shall ob­tain their bright reward.

Fly, ye sea­sons, fly still fast­er;
Swiftly bring the glo­ri­ous day;
Jesus, come, our Lord and mas­ter!
Come from Hea­ven with­out delay;
Take Thy peo­ple,
Take, O take us hence away!