How, through human prose and tongue
can one describe how great, or all He's done
a hundred universes could not the books contain
nor even commence to ascertain

His mercy, goodness or saving grace
in heaven or hell, the furthest place
can one never hide from His face
nor, void any from His grace

We're instilled with such wonder and awe
as we read what John on Patmos saw
the beauty and untold splendor
of God, our blessed Saviour

Even that joyful and awesome place
can't compare the look on His face
as we tread His streets of pure gold
and mingle with the saints of old

The mansions prepared for us
to replace these bodies of dust
that grow old and aged with rust
then whither and die - we must

But untold glory 'twill be
when His blessed face we see
when thru golden streets we'll run
when we hear Him say "Well Done"