We have no home but Hea­ven;
A pil­grim’s garb we wear;
Our path is marked with chang­es,
And strewed with ma­ny a care;
Surrounded with temp­ta­tion,
By varied ills op­pressed,
Each day’s ex­pe­ri­ence
Warns us that this is not our rest.

We have no home but Hea­ven;
Then where­fore seek one here?
Why mur­mur at pri­va­tion?
Or grieve when trou­ble’s near?
It is but for a sea­son
That we as stran­gers roam;
And stran­gers must not look for
The com­forts of a home.

We have no home but Hea­ven;
We want no home be­side;
Our God, our friend and fa­ther,
Our foot­steps thi­ther guide.
Unfold to us its glo­ry;
Prepare us for its joy,
Its pure and per­fect friend­ship,
Its angel-like em­ploy.

We have no home but Hea­ven.
How cheer­ing is the thought!
How bright the ex­pec­ta­tions
Which God’s own Word has taught!
With ea­ger hearts we hasten,
The pro­mised bliss to share;
We have no home but Hea­ven—
Oh, would that we were there!