Lord, I am Thine: but Thou wilt prove
My faith, my pa­tience, and my love:
When men of spite against me join,
They are the sword, the hand is Thine.

Their hope and por­tion lies be­low:
’Tis all the hap­pi­ness they know,
’Tis all they seek; they take their shares,
And leave the rest among their heirs.

What sin­ners val­ue I re­sign;
Lord, ’tis enough that Thou art mine:
I shall be­hold Thy bliss­ful face,
And stand com­plete in right­eous­ness.

This life’s a dream, an emp­ty show;
But the bright world to which I go
Hath joys sub­stan­tial and sin­cere:
When shall I wake, and find me there?

O glo­ri­ous hour! O blest abode!
I shall be near and like my God!
And flesh and sin no more con­trol
The sac­red plea­sures of the soul.

My flesh shall slum­ber in the ground
Till the last trum­pet’s joy­ful sound;
Then burst the chains in sweet sur­prise,
And in my Sav­ior’s image rise.