Life a pilgrimage.

LORD, what a wretched land is this, That yields us no supply— No cheering fruits, no wholesome trees No streams of living joy!

Our journey is a thorny maze; But we march upward still, Forget these troubles of the ways, And press to Zion's hill.

See the kind angels at the gates, Inviting us to come; There Jesus, the Forerunner, waits To welcome travelers home.

There, on the green and flow'ry mount, Our weary souls shall sit, And with transporting joy recount The labors of our feet.

Eternal glory to the King Whose hand conducts us through; Our tongues shall never cease to sing, And endless praise renew.