We speak of the realms of the blest,
That coun­try so bright and so fair,
And oft are its glo­ries con­fessed—
But what must it be to be there!
We speak of its pat­hway of gold—
Its walls decked with jew­els so rare,
Its won­ders and plea­sures untold—
But what must it be to be there!

We speak of its free­dom from sin,
From sor­row, temp­ta­tion and care,
From tri­als with­out and with­in—
But what must it be to be there!
We speak of its ser­vice of love,
Of the robes which the glo­ri­fied wear,
Of the church of the First­born ab­ove—
But what must it be to be there!

Our mourn­ing is all at an end,
When, raised by the life-giv­ing word,
We see the new ci­ty des­cend,
Adorned as a bride for her Lord;
The ci­ty so ho­ly and clean,
No sor­row can breathe in the air;
No gloom of af­flict­ion or sin,
No sha­dow of ev­il, is there.

Do Thou, midst temp­ta­tion and woe,
For Hea­ven my spir­it pre­pare;
And short­ly I also shall know
And feel what it is to be there.
Then o’er the bright fields we shall roam,
In glo­ry ce­les­ti­al and fair,
With saints and with an­gels at home,
And Je­sus Him­self will be there.