509 – The Sands of Time are Sinking

The sands of time are sinking, the dawn of Heaven breaks; The summer morn I’ve sighed for -- the fair, sweet morn awakes: Dark, dark hath been the midnight, but day-spring is at hand, And glory, glory dwelleth in Immanuel’s land.

O 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 fullness His mercy doth expand, And glory, glory dwelleth in Immanuel’s land.

O I am my Beloved’s and my Beloved’s 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.

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 pierced hand; The Lamb is all the glory of Immanuel’s land.