Come we that love the Lord, And let our joys be known; Join in a song with sweet accord, And thus surround the throne. The sorrows of the mind, Be banished from the place; Religion never was designed, To make our pleasures less. Let those refuse to sing, Who never knew our God; But children of the heav'nly King, May speak their joys abroad. The hill of Zion yields, A thousand sacred sweets, Before we reach the heav'nly fields, Or walk the golden streets. Then let our songs abound, And ev'ry tear be dry; We're marching through Immanuel's ground, To fairer worlds on high.