Maker of earth, to Thee alone
Perpetual rest be­longs;
And the bright choirs around Thy throne
May pour their end­less songs.

But we—ah ho­ly now no more!
Are doomed to toil and pain;
Yet ex­iles on an ali­en shore
May sing their coun­try’s strain.

Father, whose pro­mise binds Thee still
To heal the sup­pli­ant throng,
Grant us to mourn the deeds of ill
That ban­ish us so long.

And, while we mourn, in faith to rest
Upon Thy love and care,
Till Thou re­store us with the blest
The song of Hea­ven to share.

O God the Fa­ther, God the Son,
And God the Ho­ly Ghost,
To Thee be praise, great Three in One,
From Thy cre­at­ed host.