'Tis come—the glad millennial morn—
The Son of David reigns,
Sing, sing, O earth! for thou art free,
And Satan is in chains.
Rejoice, for thou shalt fear no more
The ruthless tyrant's rod;
Nor lose again the gracious smile
Of thine incarnate God.
But chiefly thou, O Solyma!
Thou queen of cities sing:
With shouts of triumph welcome now,
Thy morning Star, thy King.
He, gracious Savior, faithful still
To thee, his faithless dove,
Forgives thee all, and bids thee dwell
Within his breast of love.
Nor thee alone—for see on high,
His saints triumphant now,
With all the hosts of Seraphim,
In ceaseless worship bow.
On him the happy myriads there,
Unwearied love to gaze;
There he amid his brethren dwells,
The Leader of their praise.
O blessed Lord! we little dream'd
Of such a morn as this;
Such rivers of unmingled joy—
Such full, unbounded bliss.
And O how sweet the happy thought—
That all we taste or see,
We owe it to the dying Lamb—
We owe it all to thee!
Yes, dearest Savior, one with thee,
Sweet Source of joy divine;
In thee we live, with thee we reign,
And we are wholly thine.