Every Morning the Red Sun

Every morn­ing the red sun

Rises warm and bright;

But the ev­en­ing com­eth on

And the dark

cold night.

There’s a bright land far away

Where ’tis nev­er-end­ing day.

Every spring the sweet young flow­ers

Open bright and gay

Till the chil­ly au­tumn hours

Wither them away.

There’s a land we have not seen

Where the trees are al­ways green.

Little birds sing songs of praise

All the sum­mer long

But in cold­er

short­er days

They for­get their song.

There’s a place where an­gels sing

Ceaseless prais­es to their king.

Christ our Lord is ev­er near

Those who fol­low Him;

But we can­not see Him here

For our eyes are dim;

There is a most hap­py place

Where men al­ways see His face.

Who shall go to that bright land?

All who do the right:

Holy child­ren there shall stand

In their robes of white;

For that Heav’n

so bright and blest

Is our ev­er­last­ing rest.