Sinner, go; will you go

To the highlands of heaven?

Where the storms never blow,

And the long summer’s given;

Where the bright, blooming flowers

Are their odors emitting;

And the leaves of the bowers

In the breezes are flitting.

2 Where the rich golden fruit

Is in bright clusters pending,

And the deep laden boughs,

Of life’s fair tree are bending;

And where life’s crystal stream

Is unceasingly flowing,

And the verdure is green,

And eternally growing.

2 Where the saints robed in white—

Cleansed in life’s flowing fountain—

Shining beauteous and bright,

They inhabit the mountain;

Where no sin, nor dismay,

Neither trouble nor sorrow,

Will be felt for a day,

Nor be feared for the morrow.

4 He’s prepared thee a home—

Sinner, canst thou believe it?

And invites thee to come,

Sinner, wilt thou receive it?

O come, sinner, come,

For the tide is receding,

And the Saviour will soon,

And for ever, cease pleading.