Lord, we have all for­sook
Thy dy­ing love to know,
To bear Thy light and ea­sy yoke,
And in Thy foot­steps go;
Our plea­sure, goods, and fame:
We yield what we have stored,
In pain, and po­ver­ty, and shame,
Partakers with our Lord.

Armed with Thy strength alone,
We still our all re­sign;
The lives which once we called our own,
Are not our own, but Thine:
Ready we al­ways stand
In Thine al­migh­ty pow­er,
To yield them up at Thy com­mand,
And meet the fie­ry hour.

Where is the pro­mise then,
The bliss Thou hast pre­pared
For us be­fore the sons of men,
Where is our great re­ward?
The hun­dred­fold in­crease
Of goods, and lands, and friends,
The sweet un­ut­ter­able peace,
The joy that ne­ver ends!

Surely we are pos­sessed
Of Thee our re­com­pense,
Ecstasy fills our pant­ing breast,
And pains our ach­ing sense:
What hath the world like this!
The joy which now we know—
’Tis more than joy, or life, or bliss,
’Tis Hea­ven be­gun be­low.

Yet O! we look for more
And migh­ti­er joys above,
The full­ness of Thy hea­ven­ly store,
Of Thine eter­nal love:
Glory shall end the strife,
And in these bo­dies shine;
Jesu, our ev­er­last­ing life,
Our flesh shall be like Thine.

Changed by His migh­ty love,
We shall be as our Lord,
And sit up­on our thrones above,
And bless His just award:
While trem­bling at the bar,
Devils and ty­rants stand,
We shall with Him their doom de­clare,
And shout at His right hand.

Then ev­ery saint of His
Shall lean up­on His breast;
The wick­ed there from troub­ling cease,
And there the wea­ry rest:
Our suf­fer­ings all are o’er,
Our tears are wiped away,
We on­ly love, re­joice, adore,
Through one eter­nal day.

The ri­vers of de­light
That there our souls em­brace,
The glo­ri­ous bea­ti­fic sight
That veils the an­gel’s face,
The joys in­ef­fa­ble
That from Thy pre­sence flow,
The full­ness here we can­not tell,
But, Lord, we die to know.