THE LAND OF BEULAH.

Oh native clime where’er afar

Thy promised glories shine,

Thou city of the Holy One,

Of Jesu’s friends and mine;

For thee my exile soul doth pant,

And from this far abode,

Would stretch the pinions of a dove,

And mount to meet its God.

Oh there the weary wing shall rest

That cannot rest below,

And there its earth-stained plumage bathe,

Where living waters flow;

There shall the lips life’s fountain quaff,

That parch in deserts here,

And there these eyes the Lord behold,

And know no more a tear.

Oh, happy home, oh native seat,

Thou only home for me,

Thou city where my portion is,

Where my true kindred be;

What joy within my bosom thrills,

That I shall soon be there,

Though last and least, yet one with them,

That crowns of glory wear!