Classic Poem

While pilgrims on this earthly ball,
Our sweetest joys are ting'd with gall;
The distant things, which promise rest,
Prove less than nothing when possest.

Pleasure, while we pursue it, flies,
And fancy'd bliss deludes our eyes;
While grace bedews with many a tear
The ground which sin has sown with care.

But in the glorious worlds on high
No sorrows spring, no comforts die;
Immortal pleasures feast the soul,
And joys in endless rivers roll.

No more the check turn'd pale with fear,
The rising sigh, the falling tear;
The sinners no more
In a sea without a shore.

Guilt's barbed sting, with piercing smart,
No more shall wound the trembling heart;
Wath'd from our sins in Jesu's blood,
We shall enjoy the peace of God.