Sinner, go, will you go,
To the high lands of Hea­ven?
Where the storms ne­ver blow,
And the long summer’s given:
Where the bright blooming flowers
Are their odors emitting,
And the leaves of the bowers
In the breezes are flitting.

Where the saints robed in white—
Cleansed in life’s flowing fountain,
Shining beauteous and bright,
They inhabit the mountain.
Where no sin, nor dismay,
Neither trouble or sorrow,
Will be felt for a day,
Nor be feared for the morrow.

He’s prepared thee a home—
Sinner, canst thou be­lieve it?
And invites thee to come,
Sinner, wilt thou receive it?
O come, sinner, come,
For the tide is receding,
And the Sav­ior will soon
And for­ev­er cease pleading.