When lonely and dejected,
When weary and oppress'd,
I love to think of heaven,
That place of joy and rest;
I love when trials meet me,
And waves of trouble roll,
To think upon the pleasures
Which there await my soul.
The path I tread is dreary,
My lot, alas! is poor;
But heaven's promised to me
Why should I wish for more?
This life is but a vapour,
Which vanisheth away,
Earth's pleasures are as flowers,
They wither and decay.
But, oh! the joys of heaven
Are not like those of earth,
They're real and enduring,
No tongue can speak their worth;
No mortal eye is able
To picture aught so fair;
No blight, no death, no sorrow,
Are known to enter there.
