1 How cheer­ing the thought that the spir­its of bliss
Will bow their bright wings to a world such as this;
Will leave the sweet joys of the man­sions ab­ove,
To breathe o’er our bo­soms some mes­sage of love.

2 They come, on the wings of the morn­ing they come,
Impatient to lead some poor wan­der­er home,
Some pil­grim to snatch from this stor­my ab­ode,
And lay him to rest in the arms of his God.