’Tis true, this earth is passing fair,
O’er which I sadly roam;
But yet it hath no charms for me,
For heavén is my home.
2 A pilgrim long I’ve wandered here;
But, with a steadfast eye,
I see a rest reserved for me,
At God’s right hand on high,
Then all the joys of earth in vain
Shall tempt my feet to roam,