I think not of the starry crown,
Or robes the saints in glory wear ;
'Twere heaven enough to bow me down,
Before my Saviour, Jesus there.
I think not of those harps whose notes
Swell sweetly o'er the heavenly plains ;
The Savior's voice in music floats,
In richer, sweeter, dearer strains.
I think not of those golden streets,
Where arches rise o'er pearly gates ;
Or mansions in whose blissful seats,
Rest for the weary pilgrim waits.
But oh! the Saviour's face to see,
The blest Redeemer's voice to hear ;
To be from sin for ever free,
The tempter's wiles no more to fear.
To feel immortal vigor fill
My soul, and quicken every power ;
On angel's wing to do His will,
And with a seraph's love adore