What hap­py men, or an­gels, these,
That all their robes are spot­less white?
Whence did this glo­ri­ous troop ar­rive
At the pure realms of heav’n­ly light?

From tor­tur­ing racks and burn­ing fires,
And seas of their own blood they came;
But nob­ler blood has washed their robes,
Flowing from Christ the dy­ing Lamb.

Now they ap­proach th’al­mig­hty throne,
With loud ho­san­nas night and day;
Sweet an­thems to the great Three-One,
Measure their blest eter­ni­ty.

No more shall hun­ger pain their souls;
He bids their par­ing thirst be­gone,
And spreads the sha­dow of His wings
To screen them from the parch­ing sun.

The Lamb that fills the mid­dle throne
Shall shed around His mild­er beams;
There shall they feast on His rich love,
And drink full joys from liv­ing streams.

Thus shall their migh­ty bliss re­new
Through the vast round of end­less years;
And the soft hand of so­ve­reign grace
Heals all their wounds and wipes their tears.