Prospect of Heaven.

MOURNING and drooping here I lie, Upon this earthly clod, While heav'nly things invite my eye, And bring me to my God.

Transported with a glorious view, Of God's eternal love, Unto this world I bid adieu, And long to be above.

There all the saints in harmony Do stand forever more, And to a vast eternity Their glorious Lord adore.

Hark! hark! methinks I hear the sound, Methinks the angels sing, The glorious melody goes round, Which makes the heavens to ring.

The saints all clothed in white array, Their Savior's praise declare: Thro' the bright realms of endless day There's not one mourner there.

Oh how the bending seraphs join To praise the God above! While all the saints in notes divine, Do sing redeeming love.