There is a land where dwell­ers sweet­ly rest,
Beyond the dis­cord of earth’s stor­my years;
Where heart­aches ne­ver more shall vex the breast,
And God’s own hand shall wipe away all tears.

A bet­ter land where mor­tals reap in joy
The har­vest sown in dis­ap­point­ment here;
Where love shall claim its own, nor fears an­noy—
Where there is per­fect love with­out a fear.

A joy­ous land, with mu­sic on the air,
Where ang­el voices swell the glad­some strain;
Bright gleams life’s ri­ver, soft­ly flow­ing, fair;
There is no death in all that wide do­main.