We sing of the realms of the blest,
That country so bright and so fair,
The glorious mansions of rest—
But what must it be to be there?
We tell of its service of love;
The robes which the glorified wear;
The church of the Firstborn above—
But what must it be to be there?
We tell of its freedom from sin,
From sorrow, temptation and care,
From trials without and within—
But what must it be to be there?
Do Thou, Lord, midst pleasure and woe,
Still for heaven our spirits prepare;
And shortly we also shall know
And feel what it is to be there.