I love that Ho­ly Scrip­ture,
Where I am tru­ly told
About the heav’n­ly ci­ty,
With walls of pre­cious gold.

About the shin­ing river
That go­eth through the street—
The boughs of life above it,
With fruit and blos­soms sweet.

This world is some­times hap­py,
With plea­sant things I love;
But it must be far, far bet­ter
To dwell in Heav’n above.

Not that the walls are gold­en,
The gates are al­ways bright;
Not that the ri­ver pour­eth
Through ev­ery street its light.

Not that a plea­sant mu­sic
From gold­en harps is stirred,
And ev­ery sound is sweet­er,
Than ear hath ev­er heard.

But there shall ne­ver en­ter
The dark, rude thoughts of sin,
That here are al­ways watch­ing
To come the heart with­in.

And there we shall not find it
So ve­ry hard to be
Gentle and true and pa­tient,
For we the Lord shall see.

And so we shall grow like Him,
All ho­ly things to love;
O! it must be far, far bet­ter
To dwell in Heav’n above!