Estrang’d from God—as I am often here;
Loud hallelujahs, ever on my tongue,
Shall to my golden harp be sweetly sung;
No plaintive notes shall give their mournful sounds,
Save when I sing my Savior’s dying wounds;
Then to the Lamb a louder song shall rise,
And echo joyful round th’ eternal skies;
And souls redeem’d shall praise a Savior slain,
While bright archangels catch the pealing strain!
Then, rising high, the song shall swell again,