For Si­on’s sake I will not cease
In ago­ny of pray­er to cry,
No, ne­ver will I hold my peace,
Till God pro­claim sal­va­tion nigh:

Worthy in her great Sav­ior’s worth
’Till Si­on doth il­lus­tri­ous shine,
And as a burn­ing lamp goes forth
The blaze of right­eous­ness di­vine.

Thy right­eous­ness the world shall see,
The Gen­tiles on thy beau­ty gaze,
And all the kings of earth agree
In won­der­ing at thy glo­ri­ous grace.

Thy glo­ri­ous grace what tongue can tell?
The Lord shall a new name im­part,
Th’unutterable name re­veal,
And write it on His peo­ple’s heart.

Sion, for thee Thy God shall care,
And claim thee as His just re­ward,
Thee for His crown of glo­ry wear,
The roy­al dia­dem of thy Lord.

Outcast of God and man no more,
No more for­sak­en and for­lorn,
Thy de­so­late es­tate is o’er,
For God shall com­fort all that mourn.

The wi­dowed Church shall mar­ried be,
And soon a nu­mer­ous off­spring bear:
Thy ev­ery son shall com­fort thee,
And cher­ish with a hus­band’s care.

Thy du­te­ous sons to thee shall cleave,
The bar­ren wo­man that keeps house,
Nor ev­er more the bo­som leave
Of their dear mo­ther and their spouse.

The Lord Him­self thy hus­band is,
He bought, and claims thee for His own;
Thy God de­lights to call thee His,
Flesh of His flesh, bone of His bone.

The joy that swells a bride­groom’s breast,
When glo­ry­ing o’er his long-sought bride,
Shall swell Thy God, of thee pos­sessed,
Of thee, for whom He lived and died.

Prophets to thee thy Lord hath raised,
O ho­ly ci­ty of our God,
Hath on thy walls His watch­men placed,
And with a trum­pet-voice en­dued.

They cry, and ne­ver hold their peace,
His pro­mise day and night they plead,
Till God from all thy sins re­lease,
And make thee like thy glo­ri­ous Head.

Call on Him now, ye watch­men, call,
Cry, ye re­mem­branc­ers di­vine,
Give Him no rest, who died for all,
Till in all His pure wor­ship join:

Till God ap­pear, the faith­ful God,
And make Je­ru­sa­lem a praise,
And spread thro’ all the earth abroad,
And ’stab­lish her with per­fect grace.

The Lord by His right hand hath sworn,
The arm of His al­migh­ty pow­er,
No more shalt thou to sin re­turn,
Thy ene­my no more de­vour.

Satan, the world, and sin too long
Have robbed the child­ren of their bread,
Poor la­bor­ing souls, they suf­fered wrong,
Nor saw their le­gal toil suc­ceed.

They sowed the ground, and did not reap,
Planted, and not drink the wine:
But I will com­fort all that weep,
And fill the poor with food di­vine.

No more shall strange de­sires con­sume
Their ho­ly, pure, and con­stant joy,
The wast­er pride no more shall come,
Their gifts and graces to de­stroy.

And sure the faith­ful see at last
The la­bor of their hands shall eat,
Shall praise the Lord, and more than taste
The heav’n­ly ev­er­last­ing meat.

They all shall sit be­neath the vine,
In calm in­viol­able peace,
And drink with­in My courts the wine,
My courts of pe­rfect ho­li­ness.

Go thro’ the gates (’tis God com­mands);
Workers with God, the charge ob­ey,
Remove what­e’er His work with­stands,
Prepare, pre­pare His peo­ple’s way.

Their ev­en course let no­thing stop,
Cast up the way, the stones re­move,
The high and ho­ly way cast up,
The Gos­pel way of per­fect love.

Lift up for all man­kind to see
The stand­ard of their dy­ing God,
And point them to the shame­ful tree,
The cross all stained with hal­lowed blood.

The Lord hath glo­ri­fied His grace,
Throughout the earth pro­claimed His Son;
Say ye to all the sin­ful race,
He died for all your sins t’atone.

Sion, thy suf­fer­ing God be­hold,
Thy Sav­ior and sal­va­tion, too:
He comes, He comes, so long fore­told,
Clothed in a vest of bloody hue.

Himself pre­pares His peo­ple’s hearts,
Breaks and binds up, and wounds and heals,
A mys­tic death, and life im­parts,
Empties the full, the emp­tied fills.

He fills whom first He hath pre­pared,
With Him the per­fect grace is giv’n,
Himself is here their great re­ward,
Their future and their pre­sent Hea­ven.

They now the ho­ly peo­ple named,
Their glo­ri­ous ti­tle shall ex­press,
From all ini­qui­ty re­deemed,
Filled with the Lord their right­eous­ness.

A chos­en, saved, pe­cul­iar race,
Sion, with all thy sons thou art,
Elect thro’ sanc­ti­fy­ing grace,
Perfect in love, and pure in heart.

A peo­ple glo­ri­ous all with­in,
Now, on­ly now, and not be­fore,
Born from above Thou canst not sin,
And God can ne­ver leave thee more.