Nor eye, ear, thought, can take the height
To which my song is taking flight,
Yet raised an humble wing,
My guess of Heaven I’ll sing;
‘Tis love’s reward, and love is fired
By guessing at the bliss desired.
Guess then at saints’ eternal lot,
By due considering what ‘tis not,
No misery, want, or care,
No death, no darkness there,
No troubles, storms, sighs, groans, or tears,
No injury, pains, sickness, fears.
They dwell in pure ecstatic light,
Of God Triune have blissful sight,
Of fontal love who gave
God filial man to save,
Of Jesus’s love, who death sustained,
By which the saints their glory gained.