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HE A VEN.
To what mighty king doth this city belong,
With its rich jewelled shrines, and its gardens of flowers,
With its breaths of sweet incense, its measures of song, And the light that is gilding its numberless towers?
See ! forth from the gates, like a bridal array,
Come the princes of heaven, how bravely they shine !
'T is to welcome the stranger, to show me the way, And to tell me that all I see round me is mine.
There are millions of saints, in their ranks and degrees, And each with a beauty and crown of his own;
And there, far outnumbering the sands of the seas, The nine rings of Angels encircle the throne.
And oh if the exiles of earth could but win One sight of the beauty of Jesus above,
From that hour they would cease to be able to sin, And earth would be Heaven; for Heaven is love.
But words may not tell of the Vision of Peace, With its worshipful seeming, its marvellous fires ;
Where the soul is at large, where its sorrows al) cease, And the gift has outbidden its boldest desires.
No sickness is here, no bleak bitter cold, No hunger, debt, prison, or weariful toil;
No robbers to rifle our treasures of gold, No rust to corrupt, and no canker to spoil.