Come, Ο my soul, thy future glory trace,
If thou receive the Savior’s offered grace,
Infinite years of pleasure thou shalt spend,
Which never, never, never, have an end!
Yes, thou shalt dwell where saints in glory are,
As many years as atoms in the air;
When those are past, as many to ensue
As blades of grass and drops of morning dew;
When those are past, as many yet behind
As forest leaves when shaken by the wind;
When those are gone as many thousands more
As grains of sand upon the ocean’s shore;
When those are spent, as many millions more
As moments in the millions past before; —
When all those blissful years, exempt from pain,
Are multiplied by myriads yet again,
Till numbers drown the thought, could I suppose
That then my bliss in heaven would have to close,
Thrice happy then my glorious lot would be;
But still that would not be eternity.
Eternity would then be just begun,
The day of bliss just dawning, rising, heaven’s bright sun;
The concert opening only, banquet just prepared,
First greetings scarcely past, first welcomes only shared;
The jubilee just commenced, the golden harps just strung,
Just tuned the lute, first timbrel struck, and anthem sung:
Just caught the strain, by east, west, south, and north!
Their joy is inconceivable! their happiness henceforth!