My soul, there is a coun­try,
Afar be­yond the stars,
Where stands a wing­èd sen­try,
All skill­ful in the wars.

There, above noise and dan­ger,
Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles,
And One born in a man­ger
Commands the beau­te­ous files.

He is thy gra­cious friend
And (O my soul, awake!)
Did in pure love des­cend,
To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thi­ther,
There grows the flow­er of peace,
The rose that can­not wi­ther,
Thy fort­ress, and thy ease.

Leave, then, thy fool­ish rang­es;
For none can thee se­cure
But One, who ne­ver chang­es,
Thy God, thy life, thy cure.