Lift up, ye saints, your weep­ing eyes,
Suspend your sor­rows and your sighs;
Turn all your groans to joy­ful songs,
Which Je­sus dic­tates to your tongues.

Thus sa­ith the Sav­ior from His throne,
“Behold all for­mer things are gone,
Passed like an anx­ious dream away,
Chased by the gold­en beams of day.

“See in ce­les­ti­al pomp ar­rayed
A new-cre­at­ed world dis­played;
Mark with what light its pros­pects shine!
How grand, how va­ri­ous, how di­vine!

“There Mine own gen­tle hand shall dry
Each tear from each o’er­flow­ing eye,
And op­en wide My friend­ly breast
To lull the wea­ry soul to rest.

No more shall grief as­sail your heart,
No bod­ing fear, no pierc­ing smart;
For ev­er there My pe­ople dwell
Beyond the range of death and hell.

Vain King of Ter­rors, boast no more
Thine an­cient wide-ex­tend­ed pow’r;
Each saint in life with Christ his head
Shall reign, when thou thy­self art dead.