When at this distance, Lord, we trace
The various glories of Thy face,
What transport pours o’er all our breast,
And charms our cares and woes to rest,
And charms our cares and woes to rest.

With Thee in the obscurest cell,
On some bleak mountain would I dwell,
Rather than pompous courts behold,
And share their grandeur and their gold,
And share their grandeur and their gold.

Away, ye dreams of mortal joy—
Raptures divine my thoughts employ;
I see the King of glory shine,
And feel His love and call Him mine,
And feel His love and call Him mine.

On Tabor thus His servants viewed
His luster when transformed He stood;
And biding earthly scenes farewell,
Cried, “Lord, ’tis pleasant here to dwell,”
Cried, “Lord, ’tis pleasant here to dwell.”