“Hope maketh not ashamed."
'Tis night—but O the joyful morn
Will soon our waiting spirits cheer;
You gleams of coming glory warn
Thy saints, O Lord, that thou art near.
Lord of our hearts, belov'd of thee,
Weary of earth, we sigh to rest,
Supremely happy, safe, and free,
Forever on thy tender breast;
To see thee, love thee, feel thee, near,
Nor dread, as now, thy transient stay,
To dwell beyond the reach of fear,
Lest joy should wane or pass away.
Children of hope, beloved Lord!
In thee we live, we glory now,
Our joy, our rest, our great reward,
Our diadem of beauty thou.
And when exalted, Lord, with thee,
Thy royal throne at length we share,
To everlasting thou shalt be
Our diadem, our glory, there.