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.