Glory to God that walks the sky,
And sends His bless­ings through;
That tells His saints of joys on high,
And gives a taste be­low.

Glory to God that stoops His throne
That dust and worms may see’t,
And brings a glimpse of glo­ry down
Around His sac­red feet.

When Christ, with all His grac­es crowned,
Sheds His kind beams abroad,
’Tis a young Heav’n on earth­ly ground,
And glo­ry in the bud.

A bloom­ing pa­ra­dise of joy
In this wild des­ert springs;
And ev­ery sense I straight em­ploy
On sweet ce­les­ti­al things.

White li­lies all around ap­pear,
And each His glo­ry shows:
The Rose of Sha­ron blos­soms here,
The fair­est flow­er that blows.

Cheerful I feast on heav’n­ly fruit,
And drink the plea­sures down;
Pleasures that flow hard by the foot
Of the eter­nal throne.

But ah! how soon my joys de­cay!
How soon my sins arise,
And snatch the heav’n­ly scene away
From these la­ment­ing eyes!

When shall the time, dear Je­sus, when
The shin­ing day ap­pear,
That I shall leave these clouds of sin,
And guilt and dark­ness here?

Up to the fields above the skies
My has­ty feet would go;
There ev­er­last­ing flow­ers arise
And joys un­wi­ther­ing grow.