1 |What happy men, or angels these
|That all their robes are spotless white?
|Whence did this glorious troop arrive
|At the pure realms of heavenly light?|
2 From tort'ring racks and burning fires,
And seas of their own blood they came;
But nobler blood has wash'd their robes,
Flowing from Christ the dying Lamb.
3 Now they approach th' almighty throne,
With loud hosannas night and day,
Sweet anthems to the great Three One
Measure their blest eternity.
4 No more shall hunger pain their souls,
He bids their parching thirst be gone,
And spreads the shadow of his wings
To screen them from the scorching sun.
5 The Lamb that fills the middle throne
Shall shed around his milder beams,
There shall they feast on his rich love,
And drink full joys from living streams.
6 Thus shall their mighty bliss renew
Thro' the vast round of endless years,
And the soft hand of sovereign grace
Heals all their wounds, and wipes their tears.