Our absent Lord has left us word,--
"Let ev'ry lamp be burning."
3 Should coming days be cold and dark,
We need not cease our singing;
That perfect rest none can molest,
Where golden harps are ringing.
4 Let sorrow's rudest tempest blow,
Each cord on earth to sever;
Our King says,--"Come!" and there's our home,
Forever, oh! forever!