With Joy, Ye Saints, Direct Your Eyes

With joy

ye saints

di­rect your eyes

Up to the world of per­fect light;

Thither the hap­py spir­it flies

And faith and hope are turned to sight.

There liv­ing waters ev­er flow

And floods of pur­est plea­sure roll;

Such as on earth we can­not know

And fru­its ce­les­ti­al feast the soul.

The hap­py saint for­gets his cares

Substantial joys are all his own;

Troubles no more he feels or fears

For ev­er seat­ed near the throne.

There sits the Sav­ior and un­folds

The mys­te­ries of re­deem­ing grace

While ev­ery humble soul be­holds

The daz­zling lus­ter of His face.