The Land of Beulah

Oh native clime where’er afar Thy promised glories shine, Thou city of the Holy One, Of Jesu’s friends and mine; For thee my exile soul doth pant, And from this far abode, Would stretch the pinions of a dove, And mount to meet its God.

Oh there the weary wing shall rest That cannot rest below, And there its earth-stained plumage bathe, Where living waters flow; There shall the lips life’s fountain quaff, That parch in deserts here, And there these eyes the Lord behold, And know no more a tear.

Oh, happy home, oh native seat, Thou only home for me, Thou city where my portion is, Where my true kindred be; What joy within my bosom thrills, That I shall soon be there, Though last and least, yet one with them, That crowns of glory wear!