When at this dist­ance, Lord, we trace
The va­ri­ous glo­ries of Thy face,
What trans­port pours o’er all our breast,
And charms our cares and woes to rest.

With Thee in the ob­scur­est cell,
On some bleak mount­ain would I dwell,
Rather than pom­pous courts be­hold,
And share their gran­deur and their gold.

Away, ye dreams of mor­tal joy!
Raptures di­vine my thoughts em­ploy;
I see the King of glo­ry shine,
And feel His love and call Him mine.

On Ta­bor thus His serv­ants viewed
His lus­ter when trans­formed He stood;
And bid­ding earth­ly scenes fare­well,
Cried, Lord, ’tis plea­sant here to dwell.

Yet still our ele­vat­ed eyes
To nob­ler vi­sions long to rise;
That grand as­sem­bly would we join,
Where all Thy saints around Thee shine.

That mount, how bright! Those forms, how fair!
’Tis good to dwell for ev­er there,
Come death, near en­voy of my God,
And bear me to that blest abode.