2 Not here—where all the dreams of bliss deceive us,
Where the worn spirit never gains its goal;
Where, haunted ever by the thought that grieves us,
Across us floods of bitter memory roll.
3 There is a land where every pulse is thrilling
With rapture earth’s sojourners may not know,
Where heaven’s repose the weary heart is stilling,
And peacefully life’s time-tossed currents flow.
4 Far out of sight, while yet the flesh enfolds us,
Lies the fair country where our hearts abide,