No , 'tis in vain to seek for bliss;
For bliss can ne'er be found
'Till we arrive where Jesus is,
And tread on heav'nly ground.

There's nothing round these painted skies,
Or round this dusty clod;
Nothing, my soul, that's worth thy joys,
Or lovely as thy God.

'Tis heav'Non earth to taste his love,
To feel his quick'ning grace;
And all the Heav'n I hope above
Is but to see his face.