Those eter­nal bow­ers, man hath ne­ver trod,
Those un­fad­ing flow­ers round the throne of God:
Who may hope to gain them after wea­ry fight?
Who at length at­tain them, clad in robes of white?

He who wakes from slum­ber at the Spir­it’s voice,
Daring here to num­ber things un­seen his choice:
He whose one obla­tion is a life of love,
Knit in God’s sal­va­tion to the blest above.

Shame up­on you, le­gions of the heav’n­ly King,
Citizens of re­gions past im­ag­in­ing!
What! with pipe and ta­bor dream away the light,
When He bids you la­bor, when He tells you, Fight?

Jesus, Lord of glo­ry, as we breast the tide,
Whisper Thou the sto­ry of the oth­er side;
Where the saints are cast­ing crowns be­fore Thy feet,
Safe for ev­er­last­ing, in Thy­self com­plete.