Come, we that love the Lord, And let our joys be known; Join in a song with sweet accord, And thus surround the throne. 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 thro' Immanuel's ground, To fairer worlds on high.