1 "We've no abiding city here:"
This may distress the worldly mind;
But should not cost a saint a tear,
Who hopes a better rest to find.
2 "We've no abiding city here:"
Sad truth, were this to be our home;
But let this thought our spirits cheer,
"We seek a city yet to come."
3 "We've no abiding city here:"
Then let us live as pilgrims do:
Let not the world our rest appear;
But let us haste from all below.
4 "We've no abiding city here,"
We seek a city out of sight:
Zion it's name,--the Lord is there,
It shines with everlasting light.
5 Oh sweet abode of peace and love,
Where pilgrims freed from toil are blest!
Had I the pinions of the dove,
I'd flee to Thee, and be at rest.
6 But hush, my soul, nor dare repine!
The time my God appoints is best:
While here to do His will be mine;
And His to fix my time of rest.
Text Information | |
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First Line: | "We've no abiding city here:" |
Meter: | L. M. |
Language: | English |
Publication Date: | 1867 |
Topic: | Man a Saint: In Prospect of Heaven |