The sands of time are sinking,
The dawn of heaven breaks;
The summer morn I've sighed for,
The fair, sweet morn awakes:
Dark, dark hath been the midnight,
But day-spring is at hand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Emmanuel's land.

O Christ! He is the fountain,
The deep, sweet well of love!
The streams on earth I've tasted,
More deep I'll drink above:
There, to an ocean fulness,
His mercy doth expand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Emmanuel's land.

Oh, 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 Emmanuel's land.

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 piercèd hand,
The Lamb is all the glory
Of Emmanuel's land.