MY home 'tis not here, in a region of death,
Which sin has defiled with its poisonous breath;
Where Christ was rejected, where man is oppressed,
In a world full of groaning, I seek not my rest.
You may show me its palaces, stately and fair.
But the brows of their inmates are furrow'd with care;
Its wisdom is folly, and madness its mirth:
For the shadows of death all envelope the earth.
I may gaze on the mountain, and forest, and flood,
They speak of their Maker, my Father and God;
His sun it enlivens the day with its light.
His moon and His stars give a voice in the night.
His hand paints each flower with its beautiful dye,
His providence watches the sparrows that fly;
I hear Him, I see Him, wherever I roam,
For this earth is His work, though it is not my home.
My home is in heaven, for Jesus is there,
He's gone His own home for His friends to prepare;
In the land which no evil has ever defiled,
Where each tear shall be wiped from the eye of His child.
My home is in heaven! yes, there we shall meet;
What joy it will be our companions to greet,
With whom thro' this desert we journeyed along;
When the sigh shall be changed for the harp and the song.