How plea­sant, how di­vine­ly fair,
O Lord of hosts, Thy dwell­ings are!
With long de­sire my spi­rit faints
To meet th’as­sem­blies of Thy saints.

My flesh would rest in Thine abode,
My pant­ing heart cries out for God;
My God! my king! why should I be
So far from all my joys and Thee?

The spar­row chooses where to rest
And for her young pro­vides her nest;
But will my God to spar­rows grant
That plea­sure which His children want?

Blest are the saints who sit on high
Around Thy throne of ma­jes­ty;
Thy bright­est glo­ries shine above,
And all their work is praise and love.

Blest are the souls who find a place
Within the tem­ple of Thy grace;
There they be­hold Thy gentl­er rays,
And seek Thy face, and learn Thy praise.

Blest are the men whose hearts are set
To find the way to Zi­on’s gate;
God is their strength, and through the road
They lean up­on their help­er God.

Cheerful they walk with grow­ing strength,
Till all shall meet in Heav’n at length,
Till all be­fore Thy face ap­pear,
And join in nob­ler wor­ship there.