The sands of time are sinking, the dawn of heaven breaks;
The summer morn I’ve sighed for - the fair, sweet morn awakes:
Dark, dark had been the midnight but dayspring is at hand,
And glory, glory dwelleth in Emmanuel’s land.

The king there in His beauty, without a veil is seen:
It were a well-spent journey, though seven deaths lay between:
The Lamb with His fair army, doth on Mount Zion stand,
And glory, glory dwelleth in Emmanuel’s land.

O Christ, He is the fountain, the deep, sweet well of love!
The streams on earth I’ve tasted more deep I’ll drink above:
There to an ocean fullness his mercy doth expand,
And glory, glory dwelleth in Emmanuel’s land.

The bride eyes not her garment, but her dear Bridegroom’s face;
I will not gaze at glory but on my King of grace.
Not at the crown He giveth but on His pierced hand;
The Lamb is all the glory of Emmanuel’s land.

O I am my Beloved’s and my Beloved is mine!
He brings a poor vile sinner into His house of wine
I stand upon His merit - I know no other stand,
Not e’en where glory dwelleth in Emmanuel’s land.

—Anne R. Cousin

Traditional tune: