Dark and thorny is the desert,
Thru which pilgrims make their way;
But beyond this vale of sorrows
Lie the fields of endless day.
Fiends, loud howling thru the desert,
Make them tremble as they go;
And the fiery darts of Satan
Often bring their courage low.

O, young soldiers, are you weary
Of the troubles of the way?
Does your strength begin to fail you,
And your vigor to decay?
Jesus, Jesus will go with you,
He will lead you to His throne;
He who dyed His garments for you,
And the wine-press trod alone.

He whose thunder shakes creation,
He who bids the planets roll;
He who rides upon the tempest,
And whose sceptre sways the whole.
Round Him are ten thousand angels,
Ready to obey command:
They are always hov’ring round you,
Till you reach the heav’nly land.

There on flow’ry hills of pleasure,
In the fields of endless rest,
Love, and joy, and peace shall ever
Reign and triumph in your breast.
Who can paint those scenes of glory
Where the ransomed dwell on high?
Where the golden harps for ever
Sound redemption thru the sky.

Millions there of flaming seraphs
Fly across the heav’nly plain;
There they sing immortal praises
Glory, glory is their strain.
But methinks a sweeter concert
Makes the heav’nly arches ring;
And a song is heard in Zion,
Which the angels cannot sing.

Recordings 1 2 3