How long, dear Saviour, oh how long, Shall that bright hour delay? Fly swiftly round ye wheels of time, And bring the promised day. From the third heav'n, where God resides, That holy, happy place, The new Jerusalem comes down, Adorned with shining grace. Lo, what a glorious sight appears To our believing eyes; The earth and sea are pass'd away And the old rolling skies! Attending angels shout for joy, And the bright armies sing, “Mortals, behold the sacred seat Of your descending King.” His own soft hand shall wipe the tears From every weeping eye And pains and groans and griefs and fears And death itself shall die.