Come we that love the Lord,
And let our joys be known;
Join in a song with sweet accord,
And thus surround the throne.

The sorrows of the mind,
Be banished from the place;
Religion never was designed,
To make our pleasures less.

Let those refuse to sing,
Who never knew our God;
But children of the heav’nly King,
May speak their joys abroad.

The hill of Zion yields,
A thousand sacred sweets,
Before we reach the heav’nly fields,
Or walk the golden streets.

Then let our songs abound,
And ev’ry tear be dry;
We’re marching through Immanuel’s ground,
To fairer worlds on high.

Recordings none