Things to Come
"He will show you things to come." -- John xvi.13.

Spitta, 1800.

tr., Emma Frances Bevan, 1899

Oh what will be the day when won at last

The last long weary battle, we shall come

To those eternal gates the King hath passed,

Returning from our exile to our Home;

When earth's last dust is washed from off our feet;

The last sweat from our brows is wiped away;

The hopes that made our pilgrim journey sweet

All met around us, realised that day!

Oh what will be the day, when we shall stand

Irradiate with God's eternal light;

First tread as sinless saints the sinless land,

No shade nor stain upon our garments white;

No fear, no shame upon our faces then,

No mark of sin -- oh joy beyond all thought!

A son of God, a free-born citizen

Of that bright city where the curse is not!

Oh what will be the day when with our prayer

Eternal singing shall be woven in --

Deep sound of golden harps far echoing there

To praise the Lamb who took away our sin;

When far and wide the radiant streets resound

With Hallelujah songs the ransomed sing,

And clouds of sweetest incense rise around

The Throne where sits in light the Saviour King!

Oh what will be the day when we shall see

The Love that opened Heaven to ransomed men!

Love draws us and we follow -- we are free --

Nought severs us from our Belovèd then:

That veil of faith through which we looked of old

Has passed away as mist before the sun;

Christ throned in glory do our eyes behold,

O'er worlds, through ages, reigning ever on.

Oh what will be the day when we shall hear

"Come, oh ye blessed!" when we take our place

Before His throne in radiance sweet and clear,

Behold His glorious, His belovèd Face --

Behold the Eyes whence bitter tears have flowed

For all our grief, our hardness, and our sin --

Behold the wounds whence streamed the precious Blood,

Which ransomed us, and washed us pure and clean!

Oh what will be the day when hand in hand,

Saints wander through the pastures green and fair,

The trees of life upon the golden strand

As fresh as on the third day morn are there;

There all is new, and never shall be old,

For time is not, nor age, nor slow decay;

No dying eyes, no hearts grown strange and cold,

All pain, all death, all sighing fled away!

Oh what will be the day when every thought

Of that dark valley we have left below,

And all remembrance of the fight we fought,

Our pilgrim journey, long and sad, and slow,

Shall only make the Glory brighter far,

Shall make the peace but deeper, sweeter yet?

O'er that dark sea was Christ our Guiding Star,

Our love were fainter love could we forget.

Oh what will be that day? no eye can see,

No ear can hear, no heart has yet conceived,

What God shall give us, and what we shall be

When we inherit what we have believed.

O Land of Promise! rough may be the road,

And long the race may be -- but sweet the end;

The dead with Christ, the risen sons of God,

With Him we journey, and with Him ascend.

the everlasting arms
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