There’s music in the upper heaven—

The choral notes that swell,

Are sweeter, fuller, richer far,

Than human lips can tell;

When rings the gush of golden harps,

And heavenly lutes are swept,

To tell the quenchless love of him

Who o’er a lost world wept.

2 The gliding rush of countless wings,

Borne on the swelling breeze,

That wafts the rustling music by,

Amid embowered trees;

The echo of the myriad feet,

That fall on pavements fair,

Of glittering dazzling gold that gleams

In untold brightness there.

3 The music of the pearly gates,

When back by angels flung,

Admitting there a ransomed soul,

Their sinless bands among;

The silvery sound that’s swelling up,

When flows the stream of life;

The rustle of the emerald leaf,

With healing virtues rife:

4 And then the tide of melody

That swells and bursts, when rings

The new song in that far-off world,

That thrilling rapture brings:

But, awed, we may not note its power,

Its depths we may not sound;

Unfathomed, fathomless it rolls

In glorious might around.