In eternal progression we're taught to believe,

But we all have to labour for what we receive.

With no service perform'd, no reward is obtain'd—

Where no warfares are wag'd, are no victories gain'd.

We must work, and continue our work all the day—

If we tire out at noon we shall forefeit the pay:

If perchance we should wear out, we take the next

room,

And with more refin'd matter our labours resume,

Under superintendence of those who preside,

In the bright spirit land, o'er the Saints that have

died.

Father Adam, our God, let all Israel extol,

And Jesus, our Brother, who died for us all:

All the praise is imperfect, we *now* can bestow—

Our expression is weak, and our language too low:

But when Zion that dwells on a planet in light,

With the Zion perfected on earth, shall unite;

Sweet, rich, high-sounding anthems, all heaven will

inspire,

As the pure language flows from the lips of the

choir.