The Prospect Joyous

And let this feeble body fail,

And let it faint or die;

My soul shall quit the mournful vale

And soar to worlds on high:

Shall join the disembodied saints

And find its long-sought rest,

That only bliss for which it pants,

In my Redeemer's breast.

In hope of that immortal crown

I now the cross sustain,

And gladly wander up and down,

And smile at toil and pain:

I suffer on my threescore years

Till my Deliverer come,

And wipe away His servant's tears,

And take His exile home.

O what hath Jesus bought for me!

Before my ravished eyes

Rivers of life divine I see,

And trees of paradise!

I see a world of spirits bright

Who reap the pleasures there;

They all are robed in spotless white,

And conquering palms they bear.

O what are all my sufferings here,

If, Lord, thou count me meet

With that enraptured host t'appear,

And worship at Thy feet!

Give joy or grief, give ease or pain,

Take life or friends away,

But let me find them all again

In that eternal day.