How hap­py is the pil­grim’s lot!
How free from ev­ery anx­ious thought,
From world­ly hope and fear!
Confined to nei­ther court nor cell,
His soul dis­dains on earth to dwell,
He on­ly so­journs here.

This hap­pi­ness in part is mine,
Already saved from self de­sign,
From ev­ery crea­ture love;
Blest with the scorn of fi­nite good,
My soul is light­ened of its load,
And seeks the things above.

The things eter­nal I pur­sue,
A hap­pi­ness be­yond the view
Of those that base­ly pant
For things by na­ture felt and seen;
Their hon­ors, wealth, and plea­sures mean
I nei­ther have nor want.

I have no shar­er of my heart,
To rob my Sav­ior of a part,
And de­se­crate the whole;
Only be­trothed to Christ am I,
And wait His com­ing from the sky,
To wed my hap­py soul.

I have no babes to hold me here;
But child­ren more se­cure­ly dear
For mine I hum­bly claim,
Better than daugh­ters or than sons,
Temples di­vine of liv­ing stones,
Inscribed with Je­sus’ name.

No foot of land do I pos­sess,
No cot­tage in this wil­der­ness,
A poor way­far­ing man,
I lodge awhile in tents below;
Or glad­ly wan­der to and fro,
Till I my Ca­naan gain.

Nothing on earth I call my own;
A stran­ger, to the world un­known,
I all their goods des­pise;
I tram­ple on their whole de­light,
And seek a coun­try out of sight,
A coun­try in the skies.

There is my house and por­tion fair,
My trea­sure and my heart are there.
And my abid­ing home;
For me my eld­er breth­ren stay,
And an­gels beck­on me away,
And Je­sus bids me come.

I come, Thy ser­vant, Lord, re­plies,
I come to meet Thee in the skies,
And claim my hea­ven­ly rest;
Now let the pil­grim’s jour­ney end,
Now, O my Sav­ior, bro­ther, friend.
Receive me to Thy breast!