Come, ye that love the Lord,
And let your songs abound,
With heart and voice in sweet accord,
Now spread his fame around.
Let all his children sing
Glad songs of praise to God,
Yes, children of the heav'nly King
Should tell their joys abroad.
The God whose plan so high
Outstrips our highest thought,
To whom we may in prayer draw nigh,
Assured we're not forgot;
This loving God is ours,
Our Father and our Friend;
He doth employ his heav'nly pow'rs
To guide us to the end.
Soon we shall see his face
And know his matchless worth,
And through his all abounding grace
Show all his glories forth.
Yea, and before we rise
To that immortal state,
The thoughts of such amazing bliss,
With constant joys elate.
Then let our songs abound,
And ev'ry tear be dry;
We're trav'ling through Immanuel's ground
To fairer prospects nigh.