C. M. The blessed society in heaven. Raise thee, my soul, fly up, and run Through every heav'nly street, And say, there's naught below the sun That's worthy of thy feet. [Thus will we mount on sacred wings, And tread the courts above; Nor earth, nor all her mightiest things, Shall tempt our meanest love.] There on a high majestic throne Th' Almighty Father reigns, And sheds his glorious goodness down On all the blissful plains. Bright like a sun the Savior sits, And spreads eternal noon; No evenings there, nor gloomy nights, To want the feeble moon. Amidst those ever-shining skies, Behold the sacred Dove! While banished sin and sorrow flies From all the realms of love. The glorious tenants of the place Stand bending round the throne; And saints and seraphs sing and praise The infinite Three One. [But O! what beams of heav'nly grace Transport them all the while Ten thousand smiles from Jesus' face, And love in every smile!] Jesus! and when shall that dear day, That joyful hour, appear, When I shall leave this house of clay, To dwell amongst them there? |