In hope we lift our wish­ful, long­ing eyes,
Waiting to see the Morn­ing Star arise;
How bright, how glad­some will His ad­vent be,
Before the Sun shines forth in ma­jes­ty!

How will our eyes to see His face de­light,
Whose love has cheered us thro’ the dark­some night!
How will our ears drink in His well-known voice,
Whose faint­est whis­pers make our soul re­joice!

No strain with­in, no foes or snares around,
No jar­ring notes shall there dis­cord­ant sound;
All pure with­out, all pure with­in the breast;
No thorns to wound, no toil to mar our rest.

If here on earth the thoughts of Je­sus’ love
Lift our poor heart this wea­ry world above,
If even here the taste of heav’n­ly springs
So cheers the spir­it, that the pil­grim sings.

What will the sun­shine of His glo­ry prove?
What the un­min­gled full­ness of His love?
What hal­le­lu­jahs will His pre­sence raise?
What, but one loud eter­nal burst of praise?