Immanuel's Land
by Anne Ross Cousin (1824-1906)

Oh! well it is for ever,
  Oh! well for evermore,
My nest hung in no forest
  Of all this death-doomed shore:
Yea, let the vain world vanish,
  As from the ship the strand,
And glory—glory dwelleth
  In Immanuel's Land.

There the red Rose of Sharon
  Unfolds its heartsome bloom,
And fills the air of Heaven
  With ravishing perfume:
Oh! to behold it blossom,
  While by its fragrance fanned
Where glory—glory dwelleth
  In Immanuel's Land.

The King there, in His beauty,
  Without a veil, is seen:
It were a well-spent journey,
  Though seven deaths lay between.
The Lamb with His fair army,
  Doth on Mount Zion stand,
And glory—glory dwelleth
  In Immanuel's Land.

Oh! Christ He is the Fountain,
  The deep sweet well of love!
The streams on earth I've tasted,
  More deep I'll drink above:
There, to an ocean fulness,
  His mercy doth expand,
And glory—glory dwelleth
  In Immanuel's Land.

E'en Anwoth was not heaven,
  E'en preaching was not Christ;
And in my sea-beat prison
  My Lord and I held tryst:
And aye my murkiest storm-cloud
  Was by a rainbow spanned
Caught from the glory dwelling
  In Immanuel's Land.

But that He built a Heaven
  Of His surpassing love,
A little New Jerusalem,
  Like to the one above,
'Lord, take me o'er the water,'
  Had been my loud demand,
'Take me to love's own country,
  Unto Immanuel's Land.'

But flowers need night's cool darkness,
  The moonlight and the dew;
So Christ, from one who loved it,
  His shining oft withdrew;
And then for cause of absence,
  My troubled soul I scanned;
But glory, shadeless, dwelleth
  In Immanuel's Land.

The little birds of Anwoth
  I used to count them blest,
Now, beside happier altars
  I go to build my nest:
O'er these there broods no silence,
  No graves around them stand,
For glory, deathless, dwelleth
  In Immanuel's land.

Fair Anwoth by the Solway,
  To me thou sill art dear!
E'en from the verge of Heaven
  I drop for thee a tear.
Oh! if one soul from Anwoth
  Meet me at God's right hand,
My Heaven will be two Heavens,
  In Immanuel's Land.

I've wrestled on toward Heaven,
  'Gainst storm, and wind, and tide;
Now, like a weary traveller,
  That leaneth on his guide,
Amid the shades of evening,
  While sinks life's ling'ring sand,
I hail the glory dawning
  From Immanuel's Land.

Deep water crossed life's pathway,
  The hedge of thorns was sharp;
Now these lie all behind me,—
  Oh! for a well-tuned harp!
Oh! to join Hallelujah
  With yon triumphant band,
Who sing, where glory dwelleth,
  In Immanuel's Land.

With mercy and with judgment
  My web of time He wove,
And aye the dews of sorrow
  Were lustered with His love:—
I'll bless the hand that guided,
  I'll bless the heart that planned,
When throned where glory dwelleth
  In Immanuel's Land.

Soon shall the cup of glory
  Wash down earth's bitterest woes,
Soon shall the desert briar
  Break into Eden's rose;
The curse shall change to blessing,
  The name on earth that's banned,
Be graven on the white stone
  In Immanuel's Land.

Oh! I am my Belovèd's,
  And my Beloved is mine!
He brings a poor vile sinner
  Into His house of wine:
I stand upon His merit,
  I know no other stand,
Not e'en where glory dwelleth
  In Immanuel's Land.

I shall sleep sound in Jesus
  Filled with His likeness rise,
To live and to adore Him,
  To see Him with these eyes
'Tween me and resurrection
  But Paradise doth stand;
Then—then for glory dwelling
  In Immanuel's Land!

The bride eyes not her garment
  But her dear bridegroom's face;
I will not gaze at glory,
  But on my King of grace—
Not at the crown He giveth,
  But on His piercèd hand:
The Lamb is all the glory
  Of Immanuel's Land.

I have borne scorn and hatred,
  I have borne wrong and shame,
Earth's proud ones have reproached me,
  For Christ's thrice blessèd name:
Where God is seal set fairest
  They've stamp'd their foulest brand;
But judgment shines like noonday
  In Immanuel's Land.

They've summoned me before them,
  But there I may not come,—
My Lord says, 'Come up hither,'
  My Lord says, 'Welcome Home!'
My kingly King, at His white throne,
  My presence doth command,
Where glory—glory dwelleth
  In Immanuel's Land.
  —Anne Ross Cousin (1824-1906)