The World is all a painted show,
Its glory, gilt and glare;
Its brightness, but a transient glow;
And all its ways, a snare:
Its friendship, fickle; love a flame
Which glimmers and expires;
A fading wreath, its crown of fame;
Its pleasure, barb’d with briers.
The Christian’s happy lot, above,
Is lasting, real, and pure;
His God, unfailing in His love,
And all in Christ secure.
There, brightest glories ever shine,
God’s paradise doth bloom;
There, all is holy, blest, divine,
And Christ its rich perfume.