DESCEND from Heaven, Immortal Dove, Stoop down and take us on Thy wings, And mount and bear us far above The reach of these inferior things, . . .
Up far beyond this lower sky, Up where eternal ages roll, Where solid pleasures never die, And fruits immortal feast the soul!
O for a sight, a moving sight, Of our Almighty Father’s throne; Where sits our Saviour crowned with light, Clothed in a body like our own.
Adoring saints around Him stand, And thrones and powers before Him fall; The God shines glorious through the Man, And sheds His glory on them all.
When shall the day, dear Lord, appear, That I shall mount to dwell above, And stand amazed among them there, And view Thy face, and sing Thy love?
Isaac Watts, 1674-1748