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562 Infinite Delight

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Oh may our humble spirits stand
Among them clothed in white.
The lowest place at His right hand
Is infinite delight.
How will our joy and wonder rise,
When our returning King
Shall bear us homeward through the skies
On love’s triumphant wing.

Behold, what heav’nly prophets sang
Is now at last fulfilled,
That death should yield his ancient reign
And vanquish quite the field.
Let faith exalt her joyful voice,
And thus begin to sing,
Oh grave, where is thy triumph now,
And where, Oh death, thy sting?


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