There is a ho­ly ci­ty,
A hap­py world above,
Beyond the star­ry re­gions,
Built by the God of love;
An ev­er­last­ing tem­ple—
And saints, ar­rayed in white,
There serve their great Re­deem­er,
And dwell with Him in light.

The mean­est child of glo­ry
Outshines the ra­di­ant sun;
But who can speak the splen­dor
Of that eter­nal throne
Where Je­sus sits ex­alt­ed,
In bright­est ma­jes­ty?
The el­ders fall be­fore Him,
The an­gels bend the knee.

And what shall be my jour­ney,
How long my stay be­low,
Or what shall be my tri­als,
Are not for me to know;
In ev­ery day of trou­ble,
I’ll raise my thoughts on high;
I’ll think of saints all shin­ing,
And crowns above the sky.