How Oft We Are There

We sing of a land

Where the serv­ants of God

Shall meet when their jour­ney is o’er

And clasp their glad hands

As they ga­ther at morn

To la­bor and sor­row no more.

We sing of the beau­ti­ful

Mansions of rest

Our Sav­ior has gone to pre­pare;

And oh

when we think

Of the bliss they un­fold

In spir­it

how oft we are there.

We sing of a land

Where the leaves nev­er fall

A land where their bloom nev­er dies;

And Je­sus Him­self

With His own lov­ing hand

Will wipe ev­ery tear from our eyes.

We sing of the palms

That the con­quer­ors wave

Who tri­umphed through Je­sus our Lord;

Who fought to the last

And with shouts on their tongues

Went home to re­ceive their re­ward.

We sing of the friends

Who are wait­ing to­day

For us in that re­gion so fair;

But who can des­cribe

What a joy it will be

To know that in­deed we are there?