MY soul, there is a country   Far beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry   All skilful in the wars: There, above noise and danger,   Sweet Peace sits crown'd with smiles, And One born in a manger   Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious Friend,   And—O my soul, awake!— Did in pure love descend   To die here for thy sake. If thou canst get but thither,   There grows the flower of Peace, The Rose that cannot wither,   Thy fortress, and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges;   For none can thee secure But One who never changes—   Thy God, thy life, thy cure.