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The Sands Of Time Are Sinking
 
Tune: Rutherford
  
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 Immanuel’s land.
 
The King there in His beauty,
Without a veil is seen;
It were a well-spent journey,
Though seven deaths lay between;
The Lamb with His fair army
Doth on Mount Zion stand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’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 dwelleth
In Immanuel’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 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 giveth,

But on His pierced hand:
The Lamb is all the glory

Of Immanuel’s land.

 

I have wrestled on towards heaven,

'Gainst storm, and wind, and tide;
Now, like a weary traveller

That leaneth on his guide,
Amid the shades of evening,

While sinks life's ling'ring sand,
I hail the glory dawning

From Immanuel's land.

 

Deep waters cross'd life's pathway,

The hedge of thorns was sharp;
Now these lie all behind me,

Oh! for a well-tuned harp!
Oh! to join Hallelujah

With yon triumphant band,
Who sing where glory dwelleth

In Immanuel's land.

 

With mercy and with judgment
My web of time He wove,
And aye the dews of sorrow
Were lustred with His love:
I’ll bless the hand that guided,
I’ll bless the heart that planned,
When throned where glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.
 

I have borne scorn and hatred,

I have borne wrong and shame,
Earth’s proud ones have reproached me

For Christ’s thrice blessed Name:
Where God His seal set fairest

They’ve stamped the foulest brand,
But judgment shines like noonday

In Immanuel’s land.

 

Mrs. Anne Ross Cousin, 1824-1906

 

 

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