Our schools are nurseries below,
For trees of Paradise to grow,
Till by their Saviour's training hand,
Transplanted to the promised land.
Myriads already, from our care,
Once our companions flourish there,
Yet still in fellowship all meet,
They see His face, we kiss His feet.
There's joy in heaven among the saints,
O'er every sinner that repents;
The children's angels swell that strain,
When little ones are born again.
Then be this day of sacred mirth
A jubilee in heaven and earth;
Hence while our glad hosannas rise,
High hallelujahs fill the skies.
When Time hath run his latest round,
And the last trumpet ceased to sound,
Death and the Grave abolish'd,--then
Eternity shall shout, Amen!
|First Line:||Our schools are nurseries below|
|Title:||Our schools are nurseries below|