No soul who knows not where to lay his head;
No one to feel the winter's chilling blast,
For there the piercing storms will all be past.
In heaven there'll be no toil without repay;
No building for a brief, ephemeral day;
For all the joys that prophets old have told
'Twill take the endless ages to unfold.
In heaven there'll be no weary pilgrim band;
No seekers for a better, fairer land;
For all who reach that blissful, happy shore,