THE SANDS OF TIME

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 dayspring is at hand,

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 fullness

His mercy doth expand,

and glory, glory dwelleth

in Immanuel’s land.




With mercy and with judgement

my web of time He wove,

and aye the dews of sorrow

were lustred by 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.




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.




I’ve wrestled on towards 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 lingering sand.

I hail the glory, dawning

in Immanuel’s land