All thy need doth He supply.
In thy cup now running o'er
Wishest thou but one thing more,
That thy friends who here still wander
Were thy bliss now sharing yonder.
To the realms we'll come so glorious,
Out of sorrow into joy;
Thee with myriad saints victorious
See in bliss without alloy.
Oh! how bless'd and fair 'twill be,