I have no resting-place on earth

On which to fix my love;

But O! my heart is yearning for

The promised rest above.

’Tis true, this earth is passing fair,

O’er which I sadly roam;

But yet it hath no charms for me,

For heavén is my home.

2 A pilgrim long I’ve wandered here;

But, with a steadfast eye,

I see a rest reserved for me,

At God’s right hand on high,

Then all the joys of earth in vain

Shall tempt my feet to roam,

To seek a dwelling-place below,

Since heavén is my home.

3 O, were this earth as fair as when

Primeval Eden smiled,

I would not by its glowing charms

Be from my hope beguiled;

But I would seek a brighter world,

Where God has bid me come:

Then seek no more to bind me here,

For heavén is my home.