Come, We That Love The Lord,
And Let Our Joys Be Known;
Join In A Song With Sweet Accord,
And Thus Surround The Throne.

We’re Marching To Zion,
Beautiful, Beautiful Zion;
We’re Marching Upward To Zion,
The Beautiful City Of God.

The Sorrows Of The Mind
Be Banished From The Place;
Religion Never Was Designed
To Make Our Pleasures Less.

Let Those Refuse To Sing,
Who Never Knew Our God;
But Children Of The Heavenly King
May Speak Their Joys Abroad.

The Men Of Grace Have Found
Glory Begun Below;
Celestial Fruits On Earthly Ground
From Faith And Hope May Grow.

The Hill Of Zion Yields
A Thousand Sacred Sweets
Before We Reach The Heavenly Fields,
Or Walk The Golden Streets.

Then Let Our Songs Abound,
And Every Tear Be Dry;
We’re Marching Through Immanuel’s Ground
To Fairer Worlds On High.

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