How sweet ’twill be at ev­en­ing,
When all our work is done,
To view the roll­ing splen­dor
Of life’s des­cend­ing sun.
And think that in the morn­ing,
Which soon shall greet our eyes,
No storm clouds of af­flict­ion,
Or sor­row e’er shall rise.

How sweet ’twill be in Zi­on,
With no more to en­dure—
To know that all our tri­als
But served to make us pure.
Just as the gold and sil­ver,
Their value to dis­play,
Must first go through the fur­nace,
To melt the dross away.

How sweet ’twill be in Hea­ven,
Where end­less morn ap­pears,
To meet our friends and know them—
The lost of by­gone years.
And with them and the an­gels,
Whose songs eter­nal rise,
Sit at the mar­riage sup­per—
The ban­quet of the skies.