Some sweet morn a day will op­en,
Nevermore to close in night;
We shall hail the ear­ly to­ken
Of its ev­er­last­ing light.
On that bright and bliss­ful mor­row,
Pilgrims rest, their jour­ney o’er;
Hunger, thirst, and death, and sor­row,
We shall know and fear no more.

Some sweet morn the saints now sleep­ing,
In the cold and si­lent tomb,
Shall awake with joy­ful greet­ing,
Mantled with im­mor­tal bloom;
Then we’ll meet the friends long part­ed,
Once on earth a hap­py band;
Meet and dwell with them for­ev­er,
Over in the Morn­ing Land.

Some sweet morn the brid­al ci­ty—
We shall see with won­der­ing eyes,
Coming down in all her beau­ty,
Crowned with glo­ry from the skies;
Then we’ll hail the King eter­nal,
With His saints, a migh­ty throng,
And, caught up with them for­ev­er,
We shall sing the glad new song.