Funeral Hymns, 7

O When shall we sweetly remove!
O when shall we enter our rest!
Return to the Sion above,
The mother of spirits distress'd!
That city of God, the great King,
Where sorrow and death are no more;
But saints our Immanuel sing.
And cherub and seraph adore.

Not all the archangels can tell
The joys of that holiest place,
When Jesus is pleased to reveal
The light of His heavenly face;
Where caught in the rapturous flame
The sight beatific they prove,
And walk in the light of the Lamb,
And bask in the beams of His love.

Who then upon earth can conceive
The bliss that in heaven they share?
Who then the dark world would not leave,
Tis good at Thy word to be here,
Tis better in Thee to be gone,
And see Thee in glory appear,
And rise to a share of Thy throne.
To mourn for Thy coming is sweet;
To weep at Thy longer delay:
But Thou whom we hasten to meet,
Shalt chase all our sorrows away:
The tears shall be wiped from our eyes,
When Thee we behold in the cloud.
And echo the joys of the skies,
And shout to the trumpet of God.
Come then to Thy languishing bride,
Who went'st to prepare us a place,
Receive us with Thee to abide,
And rest in Thy mercy's embrace.
Our heaven of heavens be this
Thy fulness of mercy to prove,
Implunged in the glorious abyss,
And lost in the ocean of love.