There is a fold where none can stray,
And pastures ever green,
Where sultry sun, or stormy day,
Or night is 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 first-born 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 land.
There congregate the sons of light,
Fair as the morning sky,
And taste of infinite delight
Beneath their Savior’s eye.
Where’er He turns, they willing turn,
In unity they move,
Their seraph spirits nobly burn
In harmony of love.
There in the power of heavenly light
They gaze upon the throne,
And scan perfection’s utmost height,
And know as they are known.
Their joy bursts forth in strains of love,
And clear symphonious song,
And all the azure heights above
The echoes roll along.
Ο may our faith take up that sound,
Though toiling here below;
‘Midst trial may our joys abound,
And songs amid our woe;
Until we reach that happy shore,
And join to swell, their strain,
And from our God go out no more,
And never weep again.