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And while His glorious voice we hear,
Our spirits are all eye, all ear,

And silence speaks His praise. 4 (0 might I die that awe to prove, That prostrate awe which dares not move

Before the great Three-One!
To shout by turns the bursting joy,
And all eternity employ

In'songs around the throne.)
478
7,6. D.

NEALE. From the Latin of BERNARD OF CLUNY.

Mine eyes their vigils keep;
For very love, beholding

Thy happy name, they weep.
The mention of thy glory

Is unction to the breast,
And medicine in sickness,

And love, and life, and rest.
2 0 one, O only mansion,

O Paradise of joy,
Where tears are ever banished,

And joys have no alloy !
Thy ageless walls are radiant

With precious stones unpriced ;
The saints build up its fabric;

The corner-stone is Christ. 3 I know not-0, I know not

What social joys are there,
What radiancy of glory,

What light beyond compare !
And when I fain would sing them,

My spirit fails and faints,
And vainly would it image

The'assembly of the saints.
4 Midst power that knows no limit,

And wisdom without bound,
The beatific vision

Shall gladden saints around;

There God, my King and Portion,

In fulness of His grace,
Shall we behold for ever,

And worship face to face.
5 They stand, those halls of Sion,

All jubilant with song ;
And bright with many an angel,

And many a martyr throng.
The Prince is ever in them,

The light is aye serene;
The pastures of the blessed

Are decked in glorious sheen. 6 There is the throne of David ;

And there, from toil released,
The shout of them that triumph,

The song of them that feast :
And they, beneath their Leader

Who conquered in the fight,
For ever and for ever

Are clad in robes of white. 7 Jerusalem, the glorious,

The joy of the elect,
O! dear and future vision

That eager hearts expect;
E'en now by faith I see thee,

E'en now thy walls discern,
To thee my thoughts are kindled,

And strive and pant and yearn. 8 And, now, we fight the battle,

And, then, we wear the crown
Of full, and everlasting,

And passionless renown.
O land that seest no sorrow !

O state that know'st no strife!
O princely bowers! O land of flowers !

O realm and home of life! 479

8s,

C. WESLEY, 0

WHEN shall we sweetly remove!

O when shall we enter our rest,
Return to the Sion above,

The mother of spirits distrest!

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