There is a fold where none can stray,
And pastures ever green,
Where sultry sun, or stormy day,
Or night are never seen.
Far up the everlasting hills,
In God’s own light it lies,
His smile its vast dimension fills
With joy that never dies.
There is a Shepherd living there,
The Firstborn from the dead,
Who tends, with sweet, unwearied care,
The flock for which He bled.
There the deep streams of joy that flow
Proceed from God’s right hand;
He made them, and He bids them go
To feed that happy band.