Oh! Time, as it fleets, dooms a joy to decay,

From the chaplet of hope steals a blossom away,

Throws a cloud o’er the lustre of life’s fairy scene,

And leaves but a thorn where the rosebud had been.

It sullies a link in affection’s young chain,

That, once slightly tarnished, ne’er sparkles again,

Spoils the sheaves that the heart in its summer would bind,

To guard ’gainst a bleak, leafless autumn of mind.

But a region there is where the buds never die,

Where the sun meets no cloud in his path through the sky,

Where the rose-wreath of joy is immortal in bloom,

And pours on the gale a celestial perfume;

Where ethereal melodies steal through the soul,

And the full tide of rapture is free from control.

Oh, we’ve nothing to do in a bleak world like this,

But to toil for a home in that haven of bliss.

“Nay, toil not,” saith Jesus, “but come unto Me;”

There’s rest for the weary, rest even for thee—

I have toiled, and have suffered, and died for thy sin;

Then only believe, and the crown thou shalt win,

The crown of Eternal Life, fadeless and bright,

Prepared for all nations who walk in the light.