How blest the shin­ing forms above,
Who dwell so near their God;
They ever taste His rich­est love,
Nor fear His lift­ed rod.

Thus freed from ev­ery toil and care,
Fain would we leave our clay;
Some friend­ly ser­aph, come and bear
Our lin­ger­ing souls away.

When shall we reach the bliss­ful shore?
Lord, call Thy pri­son­ers home;
Our hearts and joys are gone be­fore,
Come death, and Je­sus, come.

But why im­patient of de­lay,
So ea­ger to be gone?
If God com­mands a long­er stay,
His so­ver­eign will be done.