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.]