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There is a world we have not seen,

That time shall never dare destroy,

Where mortal footstep hath not been,

Nor ear hath caught its sounds of joy:

There is a region lovelier far

Than angels tell or people sing,

Brighter than summer's beauties are,

And softer than the tints of spring.


There is a world, and oh! how blest,

Fairer than prophets ever told,

And never did an angel guest

One half its blessedness unfold:

It is all holy and serene,

The land of glory and repose;

And there, to dim the radiant scene,

The tear of sorrow never flows.


It is not fanned by summer gale;

'Tis not refreshed by vernal showers;

It never needs the moonbeam pale,

For there are known no evening hours:

No, for this world is ever bright

With a pure radiance all its own;

The stream of uncreated light

Flows round it from the eternal throne.


There forms that mortals may not see,

Too glorious for the eye to trace,

And clad in peerless majesty,

Move with unutterable grace:

In vain the philosophic eye

May seek to view the fair abode,

Or find it in the curtained sky:

It is the dwelling place of God.

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