Sunday August 2, 2015
The Sands Of Time Are Sinking
Mrs. Anne Ross Cousin, 1824-1906
The summer morn I’ve sighed for,
Dark, dark hath been the midnight,
And glory, glory dwelleth
It were a well-spent journey,
The Lamb with His fair army
And glory, glory dwelleth
The streams on earth I’ve tasted,
There, to an ocean fullness,
And glory, glory dwelleth
He brings a poor vile sinner
I stand upon His merit,
Not e’en where glory dwelleth!
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.
And aye the dews of sorrow
I’ll bless the hand that guided,
When throned where glory dwelleth
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