While on the verge of life I stand,
And view the scene on ei­ther hand,
My spi­rit strug­gles with my clay,
And longs to wing its flight away.

Where Je­sus dwells my soul would be,
And faints my much loved Lord to see:
Earth, twine no more about my heart,
For ’tis far bet­ter to de­part.

Come, ye an­gel­ic en­voys, come,
And lead the will­ing pil­grim home!
Ye know the way to Je­sus’ throne—
Source of my joys and of your own.

That bliss­ful int­er­view, how sweet,
To fall trans­port­ed at His feet:
Raised in His arms to view His face,
Thro’ the full beam­ings of His grace.

To see Heav’n’s shin­ing cour­ti­ers round,
Each with im­mor­tal glo­ries crowned!
And, while His form in each I trace,
Beloved, and lov­ing all t’em­brace!

As with a se­raph’s voice to sing!
To fly as on a che­rub’s wing!
Performing with un­wear­ied hands
A pre­sent Sav­ior’s high com­mands!

Yet with these pros­pects full in sight,
I’ll wait Thy sig­nal for my flight;
For, while Thy ser­vice I pur­sue,
I find my Heav’n be­gun be­low.