Oh, when shall we sweetly remove,
Oh, when shall we enter our rest,–
Return to the Zion above,
The mother of spirits distressed;–
That city of God the great King,
Where sorrow and death are no more,
Where saints our Immanuel sing,
And cherub and seraph adore?

But angels themselves can not tell
The joys of that holiest place,
Where Jesus is pleased to reveal
The light of his heavenly face:
When, caught in the rapturous flame,
The sight beatific they prove,
And walk in the light of the Lamb,
Enjoying the beams of his love.

Thou know’st in the spirit of prayer
We long thy appearing to see,
Resigned to the burden we bear,
But longing to triumph with thee;
‘Tis good at thy word to be here;
‘Tis better in thee to be gone,
And see thee in glory appear,
And rise to a share in thy throne.