There is a world we have not seen,
That time shall never dare destroy,
Where mortal footstep hath not been,
Nor ear hath caught its sounds of joy:
There is a region lovel’er far
Than angels tell or poets sing,
Brighter than summer’s beauties are,
And softer than the tints of spring.

There is a world, and oh how blest!
Fairer than prophets ever told,
And never did an angel guest
One half its blessedness unfold:
It is all holy and serene,
The land of glory and repose;
And there, to dim the rad’ant scene,
The tear of sorrow never flows.

It is not fanned by summer gale;
‘Tis not refreshed by vernal show’rs;
It never needs the moonbeam pale,
For there are known no evening hours:
No, for this world is ever bright
With a pure rad’ance all its own;
The stream of uncreated light
Flows round it from th’eternal throne.

There forms that mortals may not see,
Too glor’ous for the eye to trace,
And clad in peerless majesty,
Move with unutterable grace:
In vain the philosophic eye
May seek to view the fair abode,
Or find it in the curtained sky:
It is the dwelling place of God.

Recordings 1