When saints ga­ther round Thee,
Dear Sav­ior, above,
And hast­en to crown Thee
With jew­els of love,
Amid those bright man­sions
Of glo­ry so fair—
Oh, grant, dear­est Sav­ior,
That I may be there.

When those who have la­bored
And strug­gled to save
Their loved ones from sor­row
Beyond the dark grave,
Are bring­ing the trea­sures
They ga­thered with care—
Oh, grant, dear­est Sav­ior,
That I may be there.

When life’s drea­ry bil­lows
Are spent on the shore
Beyond the dark ri­ver,
And time is no more,
When bright palms of glo­ry
The vic­tors shall bear—
Oh, grant, dear­est Sav­ior,
That I may be there.

And when in bright gar­ments
Thy child­ren shall stand,
A crown on each fore­head,
A harp in each hand,
And sing of the joys Thou
Hast gone to pre­pare—
Oh, grant, dear­est Sav­ior,
That I may be there.