_In Immanuel's Land._
The sands of time are wasting,
The dawn of heaven breaks;
The summer morn I've sighed for,
The fair, sweet morn awakes.
Oh, dark hath been the midnight,
But day-spring is at hand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel's land.
2 Oh, Christ, he is the fountain,
The deep, sweet well of love;
The streams of earth I've tasted,
More deep I'll drink above.
There, to an ocean fullness,
His mercy doth expand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel's land.
3 Oh, I am my Beloved's,
And my Beloved's mine;
He brings a poor, vile sinner
Into his house divine.
Upon the Rock of Ages
My soul, redeemed, shall stand,
Where glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel's land.
Annie Ross Cousin, 1857.