1 The sands of time are sinking,
The dawn of heaven breaks;
The summer morn I’ve sighed for,
The fair, the sweet morn wakes:
Dark, dark hath been the midnight,
But dayspring is at hand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.
2 O I am my Beloved’s,
And my Beloved’s mine!
He brings a poor vile sinner
Into His “house of wine.”
I stand upon His merit,
I know no other stand,
Not e’en where glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.
3 The Bride eyes not her garment
But her dear Bridegroom’s face;
I will not gaze at glory
But on my King of grace.
Not at the crown He giveth
But on His pierced hand:
The Lamb is all the glory
Of Immanuel’s land.
