Riches of grace - E. E. Byrum

Though poets may sing of the streets of pure gold

And talk of its mansions so fair,

After all it is naught; the half is not told

Of my beautiful home over there.

Man's eye has ne'er seen nor his ear ever heard,

Nor can he e'er picture the scene;

The music's so rare no one can record

The strains of the faithful, I ween.