The time is near when Zi­on’s sons,
With rap­tur­ous joy shall sing the song
Foretold by seers—an­oint­ed ones;
We have a ci­ty great and strong.

Open, ye gates! The glo­ri­ous King
Approaches with a ho­ly throng.
Open, ye gates! Saints, an­gels, sing
On gold­en harps the vic­tor’s song!

O right­eous na­tion! en­ter in,
That kept the law of truth be­low,
Enter the place, all free from sin,
Where life’s pure waters gent­ly flow.

Within these walls shall they re­main,
Who trust­ed, migh­ty Lord! in Thee:
Death, their last ene­my is slain—
They have a right to life’s fair tree.

Thus the re­deemed to Zi­on come,
With songs and ev­er­last­ing joy;
Angelic le­gions waft them home,
With shouts of praise their harps em­ploy.