Ascend, my soul, to Pis­gah’s hill,
Which ov­er­looks the pro­mised land;
Go view from thence the fer­tile fields,
And there with joy and won­der stand.

Then wish, as Da­vid did, for wings,
The wings of the ce­les­ti­al dove,
To bear thee up from earth­ly things,
To those de­light­ful seats above.

There Je­sus, clothed in bright ar­ray,
Displays His ban­ner, plants His throne;
There night is turned to end­less day,
Nor sin nor sor­row there is known.

Speed fast away, ye days and years,
Come death, con­vey me swift­ly home;
Adieu to all my doubts and fears,
My bright­est joys are yet to come.