The pear­ly gates aside are rolled,
The doors wide op­en stand,
And Heav’n, with all its streets of gold,
Its bright an­gel­ic band,
Its che­rub and its se­raph choir,
Await in blest ac­cord,
With burn­ing love, and fond de­sire,
The com­ing of their Lord.

He on Mount Ol­iv­et be­low,
His well-be­loved among,
A be­ni­son must first be­stow
Upon the saint­ly throng.
His hand is raised, the words are said
Of love, with pi­ty blent,
While bowed in awe is ev­ery head,
And ev­ery knee is bent.

He comes! He comes! from earth He soars!
See how the liv­ing cloud
Of an­gel wings around Him flings,
Bright rays, His form to shroud—
While stead­fast­ly, with up­turned eye,
The rapt Apos­tles gaze
With Ma­ry, at the deep-veiled sky,
In si­lent still am­aze.

He comes! He comes! lift up your heads,
Ye gates, ye por­tals bright!
Your prince re­turns! His path He treads
To meads of am­ber light.
He is the King of Glo­ry! Sing,
Ye hea­vens, with loud ac­claim—
Your God, your ev­er­last­ing king.
The Lord of Hosts His name!