What Happy Men, or Angels, These?

What hap­py men

or an­gels

these

That all their robes are spot­less white?

Whence did this glo­ri­ous troop ar­rive

At the pure realms of heav’n­ly light?

From tor­tur­ing racks and burn­ing fires

And seas of their own blood they came;

But nob­ler blood has washed their robes

Flowing from Christ their dy­ing Lamb.

Now they ap­proach th’al­mig­hty throne

With loud ho­san­nas night and day

Sweet an­thems to the great Three-One

Measure their blest eter­ni­ty.

No more shall hun­ger pain their souls;

He bids their parch­ing thirst be gone

And spreads the sha­dow of His wings

To screen them from the scorch­ing sun.

The Lamb that fills the mid­dle throne

Shall shed around His mild­er beams;

There shall they feast on His rich love

And drink full joys from liv­ing streams.

Thus shall their migh­ty bliss re­new

Through the vast round of end­less years;

And the soft hand of sov­er­eign grace

Heals all their wounds and wipes their tears.