The sands of time are sinking
The dawn of heaven breaks
The summer morn I’ve sighed for
The fair sweet morn awakes
So dark has been the midnight
But dayspring is at hand
And glory, glory dwells within Immanuel’s land

Oh 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 will expand
And glory, glory dwells within Immanuel’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 gives us
But on his nail-pierced hand
The lamb is all the glory of Immanuel’s land

Oh I am my beloved’s
And my beloved is mine
He brings a poor vile sinner
Into his house of wine
I stand upon his merit
I know no other stand
To him be all the glory in Immanuel’s land

Words by Anne Ross Cousin (1824-1906)

Available for download from Matt Searles, here