Upward where the stars are burn­ing,
Silent, si­lent in their turn­ing
Round the ne­ver chang­ing pole;
Upward where the sky is bright­est,
Upward where the blue is light­est,
Lift I now my long­ing soul.

Far above that arch of glad­ness,
Far be­yond these clouds of sad­ness,
Are the ma­ny man­sions fair.
Far from pain and sin and fol­ly,
In that pal­ace of the ho­ly,
I would find my man­sion there.

Where the glo­ry bright­ly dwell­eth,
Where the new song sweet­ly swell­eth,
And the dis­cord ne­ver comes;
Where life’s stream is ev­er lav­ing,
And the palm is ev­er wav­ing,
That must be the home of homes.

Where the Lamb on high is seat­ed,
By ten thou­sand voic­es greet­ed,
Lord of lords, and King of kings.
Son of Man, they crown, they crown Him,
Son of God, they own, they own Him;
With His name the pal­ace rings.

Blessing, hon­or, with­out mea­sure,
Heavenly rich­es, earth­ly trea­sure,
Lay we at His bless­èd feet:
Poor the praise that now we ren­der,
Loud shall be our voic­es yon­der,
When be­fore His throne we meet.