A Mystery Doth the Gospel Show

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

O quick­ly change each earth­ly clod;

Restore the im­age of our God;

Let uni­vers­al na­ture sing

Its praise to Christ

our heav’n­ly king.