The spirit is often enraptured
With sweet tokens of love divine,
But seldom in language so plain
As spoken through music, to mine.
Then my soul flings wide her portals,
And visions of Paradise throng,
While I bow, in silent devotion,
To the Author of genius and song.
The pleasures of earth are but few,
And scarce for our sorrows repay,
But we catch, in sweet moments like this,
A glimpse of the perfect day.
When I reach the Celestial City
And gaze from her golden tower,
Methinks my freed spirit would turn
Far back, to this rapturous hour.
And as angels are harping their songs--
Sweet songs of a heavenly birth--
I'll listen to hear the same touch
That played us this prelude on earth.