Sacred Harp 175: ‘Highlands of Heaven’

Sinner, go, will you go,
To the highlands of heaven;
Where the storms never blow,
And the long summer’s given?
Where the bright blooming flow’rs
Are their odors emitting;
And the leaves of the bow’rs
On the breezes are flitting.

Where the saints robed in white,
Cleansed in life’s flowing fountain,
Shining, beauteous, and bright,
Shall inhabit the mountain.
Where no sin, nor dismay,
Neither trouble, nor sorrow,
Will be felt for today,
Nor be feared for the morrow.

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