The Sands of Time Are Sinking

Congregational singing
Metropolitan Tabernacle, London
The sands of time are sinking,
The dawn of Heaven breaks;
The summer morn I’ve sighed for,
The fair, sweet morn, awakes:
Dark, dark has been the midnight,
But dayspring is at hand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Emmanuel’s land.
O Christ, He is the fountain,
The deep, sweet well of love;
The streams on earth I’ve tasted,
More deep I’ll drink above:
There, to an ocean fulness,
His mercy doth expand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Emmanuel’s land.
With mercy and with judgement,
My web of time He wove;
And e’en the dews of sorrow
Were lustred with His love;
I’ll bless the hand that guided,
I’ll bless the heart that planned,
When throned where glory dwelleth
In Emmanuel’s land.
The bride eyes not her garment,
But her dear bridegroom’s face;
I will not gaze at glory,
But on my King of grace;
I rest upon His merit,
I know no other stand:
The Lamb is all the glory
Of Emmanuel’s land.
I’ve wrestled on towards Heaven,
‘Gainst storm and wind and tide;
Now, like a weary traveller
Who leans upon his guide,
Amid the shades of evening,
While sinks life’s lingering sand,
I’ll hail the glory dawning
From Emmanuel’s land.

Congregational singing
Capitol Hill Baptist Church – Washington, D.C.
The sands of time are sinking,
The dawn of Heaven breaks;
The summer morn I’ve sighed for,
The fair, sweet morn awakes;
Dark, dark hath been the midnight,
But dayspring is at hand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.
The King there in His beauty,
Without a veil is seen;
It were a well spent journey,
Though sev’n deaths lay between;
The Lamb with His fair army
Doth on Mount Zion stand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.
O Christ, He is the fountain,
The deep, deep well of love;
The streams on earth I’ve tasted,
More deep I’ll drink above;
There to an ocean fullness
His mercy doth expand,
And glory, glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.
With mercy and with judgment
My web of time He wove;
And aye, the dews of sorrow
Were lustered with His love;
I’ll bless the hand that guided,
I’ll bless the heart that planned,
When throned where glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.
Oh! I am my Beloved’s
And my Beloved’s mine!
He brings a poor, vile sinner
Into His “house of wine.”
I stand upon His merit,
I know no other stand,
Not e’en where glory dwelleth
In Immanuel’s land.
The bride eyes not her garments,
But her dear Bridegroom’s face;
I will not gaze at glory
But on my King of grace;
Not at the crown He giveth,
But on His pierced hand;
The Lamb is all the glory
Of Immanuel’s land.

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