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I know not, O, I know not,
What social joys are there;
What radiancy of glory,
What light beyond compare!

And when I fain would sing them,
My spirit falls and faints,—
And vainly would it image
The assembly of the Saints.

They stand, those halls of Syon,
Conjubilant with song,
And bright with many an angel,
And all the martyr throng:

The Prince is ever in them;
The daylight is serene;
The pastures of the blessed
Are decked in glorious sheen.

There is the throne of David,—
And there, from care released,
The song of them that triumph,
The shouts of them that feast;

And they who, with their Leader,
Have conquered in the fight,
Forever and forever
Are clad in robes of white.