The Exile

1THERE is a land, a better land than this–
There's my home, there's my home!
A land of pure, unbounded, perfect bliss–
There's my home, there's my home;
A captive on this desert shore,
I long to count my exile o'er,
And be where sorrows come no more:
There's my home, there's my home.

2Far, far I am from my own happy shore–
I would go, I would go.
But yet my days of exile are not o'er–
I would go, I would go.
I would not stay though earth were mine;
Though all its treasures for me shine,
A captive here I still should pine–
I would go, I would go!

3Bright visions of that blissful land appear–
There's my home, there's my home;
How long a pilgrim must I wander here?
There's my home, there's my home.
O, tell me that I soon shall be,
With all the ransomed exiles, free,
There in that land I long to see:
There's my home, there's my home.

4There is a land; a brighter land than this;
Joys are there, joys are there;
No pain or sorrow, sickness or distress,
Reaches there, reaches there.
Bright fields of pleasure greet the eye,
And crystal streams that never dry;
O, give me wings, I now would fly,
And be there, and be there.