The sands of time are sinking;
The dawn of heaven breaks;
The summer morn I’ve sighed for,
The fair, sweet morn awakes:
Dark, dark hath been the midnight,
But dayspring is at hand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.
Oh Christ, He is the fountain,
The deep, sweet well of love!
The streams of earth I’ve tasted–
More deep I’ll drink above:
There to an ocean fullness
His mercy doth expand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.
The Bride eyes not her garment,
But her dear Bridegroom’s face;
I will not gaze at glory,
But on my King of grace:
Not at the crown He giveth,
But on His pierced hand–
The Lamb is all the glory
Of Immanuel’s land.
The King there in His beauty
Without a veil is seen;
It were a well spent journey,
Though sev’n deaths lay between.
The Lamb with His fair army
Doth on Mount Zion stand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.
– Anne Ross Cousin (1857)