With all our tears, away.
2 Strangers on earth, we wait for thee;
O leave the Father’s throne;
Come with a shout of victory, Lord,
And claim us as thine own.
3 O bid the bright archangel now
The trump of God prepare,
To call thy saints—the quick, the dead,
To meet thee in the air.
4 No resting-place we seek on earth,