By John was seen a wondrous sight,
A noble light,
A picture very glorious:
A multitude stood 'fore him there
All bright and fair,
On heav'nly plain victorious;
Their heart and mood
Were full of good,
That mortal man
With gold ne'er can
Procure, so high 'tis o'er us.

Palm branches in their hands they bore,
They stood before
The Lamb's throne, 'fore the Saviour;
Praise from their lips did ever flow,
Their robes like snow,
Their song still higher ever,
So sweetly rang;
Glad thanks they sang,
And in their song
The holy throng
Of angels joined ever.

"Who," said the wond'ring John, "are they
In white array,
Whom now I see before me?"
"They are," said one from out the crowd
That round him stood,
One of the elders hoary,
"They're men, my son,
Who fought and won
The fight of faith,
Despis'd the scath,
Attain'd the prize of glory.

"They're those who on the earth below,
Long, long ago,
Pass'd through great tribulation;
Who for the honour of their Lord
And of His word,
All grief and all vexation,
From blame all free
But patiently,
Though smarting sore
By God's help bore,
O'ercame with exultation.

"They wash'd their robes and made them white
(Their hearts were right),
In faith's bath them renewing,
And they resisted evermore
With all their pow'r
Hell's art, it quite subduing,
Did aye deride
Earth's pomp and pride,
Chose Jesu's blood
As their chief good,
All other good eschewing.

"And therefore with their doings, they
Stand there for aye,
Where God's fair temple's standing,
The temple where they night and day
Praise God for aye,
His glorious name commending.
There do they live
With nought to grieve,
From toil all free
Joys taste and see,
That never know an ending.

"There in His dwelling sitteth God
And spreads abroad
His goodness as a cover,
There with bliss manifold is bless'd
In quiet rest,
The wearied whose life's over;
What pleasure gives,
The heart relieves,
The longing stills,
And the eye fills,
In full bloom stands there ever.

"No thirst, nor hunger there, no need;
The heav'nly bread
All wants aye satisfieth;
And shineth there the sun no more
In too great pow'r,
Its light pure joy supplieth;
Heav'n's sun so bright
And heart's delight,
Is our great Lord
The living Word,
Who no good thing denieth."

The Lamb His flock will ever feed
E'en as they need,
In pastures never wasting;
He will them to the fountain bring,
Whence ever spring
Streams of life everlasting;
And certainly
Ne'er rest will He,
Till wash'd away
All tears for aye
Are, and His bliss we're tasting.

LONDON:
PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.