We have heard from the bright, the holy land;
    We have heard, and our hearts are glad;
For we were a lonely pilgrim band,
    And weary, and worn, and sad.
They tell us the saints have a dwelling there_
    No longer are homeless ones;
And we know that the goodly land is fair,
    Where life's pure river runs.

They say green fields are waving there,
    That never a blight shall know;
And the deserts wild are blooming fair,
    And the roses of Sharon grow.
There are lovely birds in the bowers green,
    Their songs are blithe and sweet;
And their warblings, gushing ever new,
    The angels' harpings greet.

We have heard of the palms, the robes, the crowns,
    And the silvery band in white;
Of the city fair, with pearly gates,
    All radiant with light.
We have heard of the angels there, and saints,
    With their harps of gold, how they sing;
Of the mount, with the fruitful tree of life,
   Of the leaves that healing bring.

The King of that country, He is fair,
    He's the joy and light of the place;
In His beauty we shall behold Him there,
    And bask in His smiling face.
We'll be there, we'll be there in a little while,
    We'll join the pure and the blest;
We'll have the palm, the robe, the crown,
    And forever be at rest.