There is sing­ing up in Heav­en
Such as we have ne­ver known,
Where the an­gels sing the prais­es
Of the Lamb up­on the throne,
Their sweet harps are ev­er tune­ful,
And their voic­es al­ways clear,
O that we might be more like them
While we serve the Mas­ter here!

Refrain

Holy, ho­ly, is what the an­gels sing,
And I ex­pect to help them make
The courts of Heav­en ring;
But when I sing re­demp­tion’s sto­ry,
They will fold their wings,
For an­gels ne­ver felt the joys
That our sal­va­tion brings.

But I hear ano­ther an­them,
Blending voic­es clear and strong,
Unto Him who hath re­deemed us
And hath bought us, is the song;
We have come through tri­bu­la­tion
To this land so fair and bright,
In the fount­ain free­ly flow­ing
He hath made our gar­ments white.

Refrain

Then the an­gels stand and list­en,
For they can­not join the song,
Like the sound of ma­ny waters,
By that hap­py, blood washed throng,
For they sing about great tri­als,
Battles fought and vic­to­ries won,
And they praise their great Re­deem­er,
Who hath said to them, Well done.

Refrain

So, al­though I’m not an an­gel,
Yet I know that ov­er there
I will join a bless­èd chor­us
That the an­gels can­not share;
I will sing about my Sav­ior,
Who up­on dark Cal­va­ry
Freely par­doned my trans­gress­ions,
Died to set a sin­ner free.

Refrain