The sands of time are sink­ing,
The dawn of Hea­ven breaks;
The sum­mer morn I’ve sighed for—
The fair, sweet morn awakes:
Dark, dark hath been the mid­night,
But day­spring is at hand,
And glo­ry, glo­ry dwell­eth
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

O Christ, He is the foun­tain,
The deep, sweet well of love!
The streams on earth I’ve tasted
More deep I’ll drink above:
There to an ocean full­ness
His mer­cy doth ex­pand,
And glo­ry, glo­ry dwelleth
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

Oh! Well it is for­ev­er,
Oh! well for­ev­er­more,
My nest hung in no for­est
Of all this death doomed shore:
Yea, let the vain world van­ish,
As from the ship the strand,
While glo­ry—glo­ry dwell­eth
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

There the red rose of Sha­ron
Unfolds its heart­some bloom
And fills the air of Hea­ven
With ra­vish­ing per­fume:
Oh! To be­hold it blos­som,
While by its frag­rance fanned
Where glo­ry—glo­ry dwell­eth
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

The King there in His beau­ty,
Without a veil is seen:
It were a well spent jour­ney,
Though se­ven deaths lay be­tween:
The Lamb with His fair ar­my,
Doth on Mount Zi­on stand,
And glo­ry—glo­ry dwelleth
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

Oft in yon sea beat pri­son
My Lord and I held tryst,
For An­woth was not Hea­ven,
And preach­ing was not Christ:
And aye, my mur­ki­est storm cloud
Was by a rain­bow spanned,
Caught from the glo­ry dwell­ing
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

But that He built a Hea­ven
Of His sur­pass­ing love,
A lit­tle new Je­ru­sa­lem,
Like to the one above,
Lord take me ov­er the wa­ter,
Hath been my loud de­mand,
Take me to my love’s own coun­try,
Unto Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

But flow­ers need night’s cool dark­ness,
The moon­light and the dew;
So Christ, from one who loved it,
His shin­ing oft with­drew:
And then, for cause of ab­sence
My trou­bled soul I scanned
But glo­ry shade­less shin­eth
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

The lit­tle birds of An­woth,
I used to count them blessed,
Now, be­side hap­pi­er al­tars
I go to build my nest:
O’er these there broods no si­lence,
No graves around them stand,
For glo­ry, death­less, dwell­eth
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

Fair An­woth by the Solway,
To me thou still art dear,
E’en from the verge of Hea­ven,
I drop for thee a tear.
Oh! If one soul from An­woth
Meet me at God’s right hand,
My heav’n will be two heavens,
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

I’ve wres­tled on to­wards Hea­ven,
Against storm and wind and tide,
Now, like a wea­ry tra­vel­er
That lean­eth on his guide,
Amid the shades of ev­en­ing,
While sinks life’s lin­ger­ing sand,
I hail the glo­ry dawn­ing
From Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

Deep waters crossed life’s path­way,
The hedge of thorns was sharp;
Now, these lie all behind me,
Oh! for a well tuned harp!
Oh! To join hal­le­lujah
With yon tri­um­phant band,
Who sing where glo­ry dwell­eth
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

With mer­cy and with judg­ment
My web of time He wove,
And aye, the dews of sor­row
Were lus­tered with His love;
I’ll bless the hand that guid­ed,
I’ll bless the heart that planned
When throned where glo­ry dwell­eth
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

Soon shall the cup of glo­ry
Wash down earth’s bit­ter­est woes,
Soon shall the de­sert bri­ar
Break into Ed­en’s rose;
The curse shall change to bless­ing
The name on earth that’s banned
Be grav­en on the white stone
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

O I am my Be­lov­èd’s
And my Be­lov­èd’s mine!
He brings a poor vile sin­ner
Into His house of wine.
I stand up­on His mer­it—
I know no oth­er stand,
Not e’en where glo­ry dwelleth
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

I shall sleep sound in Je­sus,
Filled with His like­ness rise,
To love and to adore Him,
To see Him with these eyes:
’Tween me and re­sur­rect­ion
But pa­ra­dise doth stand;
Then—then for glo­ry dwell­ing
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

The bride eyes not her gar­ment,
But her dear bride­groom’s face;
I will not gaze at glo­ry
But on my king of grace.
Not at the crown He giv­eth
But on His pierc­èd hand;
The Lamb is all the glo­ry
Of Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

I have borne scorn and hat­red,
I have borne wrong and shame,
Earth’s proud ones have re­proached me
For Christ’s thrice bless­èd name:
Where God His seal set fair­est
They’ve stamped the foul­est brand,
But judg­ment shines like noon­day
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.

They’ve sum­moned me be­fore them,
But there I may not come,
My Lord says Come up hi­ther,
My Lord says Wel­come home!
My king, at His white throne,
My pre­sence doth com­mand
Where glo­ry—glo­ry dwell­eth
In Im­ma­nu­el’s land.