The Sands of Time Are Sinking

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 dayspring is at hand,
and glory, glory dwelleth in Emmanuel's land.

The King there in His beauty without a veil is seen;
it were a wellspend journey though sev'n deaths lay between:
the Lamb with His fair army doth on Mount Zion stand,
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 fullness His mercy doth expand,
and glory, glory swelleth 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 gifteth, but on His pierced hand:
the Lamb is all the glory of Emmanuel's land.

Anne Cousin, 1857