1 A mys­te­ry doth the Gos­pel show—
We shall ere long be changed be­low;
When from the graves the saints shall rise,
And loud their songs sa­lute the skies.

2 The earth, to its first form re­stored,
Shall glor­ify its migh­ty Lord;
And blest, His child­ren hail the place,
Where they may view Him face to face.

3 What joys ec­sta­tic will sur­prise,
When God shall wipe from off our eyes
All tears of grief, and bliss re­store,
And suf­fer us to sin no more!

4 Lord, let this glor­ious king­dom come!
We would pro­claim, there still is room
For myr­iads yet un­born to God;
O, fly—or ye must feel His rod!

5 Open each eye, un­stop each ear,
And show Thy great ap­proach draws near,
To claim the king­doms for Thine own,
Renew the world, erect Thy throne.

6 O quick­ly change each earth­ly clod;
Restore the im­age of our God;
Let uni­vers­al na­ture sing
Its praise to Christ, our heav’n­ly king.