O land of our king!
Where harv­est em­brac­es the flow­ery spring,
Where all things worth hav­ing for­ev­er remain,
Where no­thing we miss but our sor­row and pain;
All man­kind is long­ing to find and ex­plore
Thy beau­ti­ful shore.

How bless­èd the land!
Where time is not mea­sured by tears or with sand,
Where fades not the flow­er, the bird nev­er dies,
Where joys are not bub­bles that break as they rise;
Where life does not crown us with white for the gloom
Of death and the tomb.

How bless­èd to be
Where death has no sting, where from sin we are free,
Where all that de­cayed in new glo­ry shall bloom,
Where all that was ru­ined shall rise from the tomb,
Where love grows in light as a su­mmer day fair
With flow­er-crowned hair.

My spir­it re­ceives
Thro’ Christ what the world nei­ther knows nor be­lieves;
This while we are here, we but dim­ly can know,
Though feel­ing with­in us its heav­en­ly glow.
The Lord sa­ith: On earth as in Hea­ven ab­ove
My king­dom is love.