’Tis night—but O the joy­ful morn
Will soon our wait­ing spir­its cheer;
Yon gleams of com­ing glo­ry warn
Thy saints, O Lord, that Thou art near.

Lord of our hearts, be­loved of Thee,
Weary of earth, we sigh to rest,
Supremely hap­py, safe and free,
For ever on Thy ten­der breast.

To see Thee, love Thee, feel Thee near,
Nor dread, as now, Thy tran­si­ent stay;
To dwell be­yond the reach of fear
Lest joy should wane or pass away.

Children of hope, be­lov­èd Lord!
In Thee we live, we glo­ry now;
Our joy, our rest, our great re­ward,
Our dia­dem of beau­ty, Thou!

And when ex­alt­ed, Lord, with Thee,
Thy roy­al throne at length we share;
To ev­er­last­ing Thou shalt be
Our dia­dem, our glo­ry there!