These are the crowns that we shall wear
When all Thy saints are crowned;
These are the palms that we shall bear
On yon­der ho­ly ground.

Far off as yet, re­served in Hea­ven,
Above that veil­ing sky,
They spar­kle, like the star of ev­en,
To hope’s far pierc­ing eye.

These are the robes, un­soiled and white
Which we shall then put on,
When, fore­most ’mong the sons of light,
We sit on yon­der throne.

That ci­ty with the jew­eled crest,
Like some new-light­ed sun;
A blaze of burn­ing ame­thyst—
Ten thou­sand orbs in one.

That is the ci­ty of the saints,
Where we so soon shall stand,
When we shall strike these des­ert tents,
And quit this des­ert sand.

These are the ev­er­last­ing hills,
With sum­mits bathed in day;
The slopes down which the liv­ing rills,
Soft laps­ing, take their way.

Fair vi­sion! how thy dist­ant gleam
Brightens time’s sad­dest hue;
Far fair­er than the fair­est dream,
And yet so strang­ely true!

Fair vi­sion! how thou lift­est up
The droop­ing brow and eye;
With the calm joy of thy sure hope
Fixing our souls on high.

Thy light makes e’en the dark­est page
In me­mo­ry’s scroll grow fair;
Blanching the lines which tears and age
Had on­ly deep­ened there.

With thee in view, the rug­ged slope
Becomes a le­vel way,
Smoothed by the ma­gic of thy hope,
And glad­dened by thy ray.

With thee in view, how poor ap­pear
The world’s most win­ning smiles;
Vain is the tempt­er’s sub­tlest snare,
And vain hell’s var­ied wiles.

Time’s glo­ry fades; its beau­ty now
Has ceased to lure or blind;
Each gay en­hance­ment here below
Has lost its pow­er to bind.

Then wel­come toil, and care and pain!
And wel­come sor­row, too!
All toil is rest, all grief is gain,
With such a prize in view.

Come crown and throne,
Come robe and palm!
Burst forth, glad stream of peace!
Come, ho­ly ci­ty of the Lamb!
Rise, Sun of right­eous­ness!

When shall the clouds that veil thy rays
For ever be with­drawn?
Why dost thou tar­ry, day of days?
When shall thy glad­ness dawn?