Emmanuel's Land – that name so sweet,
Where weary ones desire to be:
A place of joy, of fountains, bowers,
A place of blissful rest for me –
But something yet I lack.
Oh bliss, the breeze that airs that land!
A scent of perfumed herbs so sweet,
All spicy in that balmy air:
Calamus, camphire, spikenard –
But something yet I lack.
Here is a fountain sweeter far,
Than aught that mortal ever drank;
Sweeter than Lethe of Hellenes,
Than rich new wine or sweetest milk –
But something yet I lack.
I lay me in a perfumed bower,
Musk roses, cedar, myrrh entwined,
Its perfumed stillness proffers rest,
I'm stayed with apples, flagons too –
But something yet I lack.
But lo, the Gardener is come:
His beauty far exceeds the rose,
His voice is fresher than the fount,
His comfort greater than the bower –
And nothing now I lack.
