A. R. Cousin

THE sands of time are sinking,

The dawn of heaven breaks,

The summer morn I’ve sighed for,

The fair sweet morn awakes.

Dark, dark hath been the midnight,

But day-spring is at hand,

And glory, glory dwelleth

In Emmanuel’s land.


The King there in His beauty,

Without a veil is seen;

It were a well-spent journey,

Though seven deaths lay between;

The Lamb, with His fair army,

Doth on Mount Zion stand,

And glory, glory dwelleth

In Emmanuel’s land.


Oh! Christ He is the Fountain,

The deep sweet well of love!

The streams on earth I’ve tasted,

More deep I’ll drink above:

There to an ocean fulness

His mercy doth expand,

And glory, glory dwelleth

In Emmanuel’s land.


Oh, I am my Beloved’s

And my Beloved’s mine!

He brings a poor vile sinner

Into His “house of wine”:

I stand upon His merit,

I know no other stand,

Not e’en where glory dwelleth

In Emmanuel’s land.


The bride eyes not her garment,

But her dear bridegroom’s face;

I will not gaze at glory,

But on my King of grace:

Not at the crown He giveth,

But on His pierced hand;

The Lamb is all the glory

Of Emmanuel’s land.


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