1 When at this distance, Lord, we trace
The various glories of thy face,
What transport pours o'er all our breast,
And charms our cares and woes to rest.

2 With thee in the obscurest cell
On some bleak mountain would I dwell,
Rather than pompous courts behold,
And share their grandeur and their gold.

3 Away, ye dreams of mortal joy!
Raptures divine my thoughts employ:
I see the King of glory shine;
And feel his love, and call him mine.

4 On tabor, thus his servants view'd
His lustre, when transform'd he stood;
And, bidding earthly scenes farewel,
Cries, "Lord, 'tis pleasant here to dwell."

5 Yet still our elevated eyes
To nobler visions long to rise;
That grand Assembly would we join,
Where all thy saints around thee shine.

6 That mount how bright! those forms how fair!
'Tis good to dwell for ever there:
Come, death, dear envoy of my God,
And bear me to that blest abode.