My God, what endless pleasures dwell

Above at thy right hand

Thy courts below, how amiable!

Where all thy graces stand!

The swallow near thy temple lies,

And chirps a cheerful note;

The lark mounts upward to the skies,

And tunes her warbling throat:

And we, when in thy presence, Lord,

We shout with joyful tongues;

Or sitting round our Father's board,

We crown the feast with songs.

While Jesus shines with quick'ning grace,

We sing, and mount on high;

But if a frown becloud his face,

We faint, and tire, and die.

[Just as we see the lonesome dove

Bemoan her widowed state,

Wand'ring she flies through all the grove,

And mourns her loving mate;

Just so our thoughts from thing to thing

In restless circles rove;

Just so we droop and hang the wing,

When Jesus hides his love.]