1 How happy is the pilgrim's lot,
How free from every anxious thought,
From worldly hope and fear!
Confin'd to neither court nor cell,
His soul disdains on earth to dwell,
He only sojourns here.

2 His happiness in part is mine,
Already sav'd from self-design,
From every creature love!
Bless'd with the scorn of finte good,
My soul is lighten'd of its load,
And seeks the things above.

3 The things eternal I pursue
And happiness beyond the view
Of those who basely pant
For things by nature felt or seen:
Their honors, wealth, and pleasures mean,
I neither have nor want.

4 Nothing on earth I call my own;
A stranger to the world unknown,
I all their goods despise;
I trample on their whole delight,
And seek a country out of sight,
A country in the skies.

5 There is my house and portion fair,
My treasure, and my heart are there,
And my abiding home:
For me my elder brethren stay,
And angels beckon me away,
And Jesus bids me come.

5 I come, thy servant, Lord, replies,
I come, to meet thee in the skies,
And claim my heavenly rest:
Now let the pilgrim's journey end,
Now, O my Savior, brother, friend,
Receive me to thy breast!