Our Last Grand Camping Ground

On a pebly shore, where forevermore
Gently creeps a music laden wave -
In the meadows green, which beyond are seen,
Camps a conq'ring army, true and brave.
Shining are the weapons of this martial throng -
Crimson died their banner, battleworn so long;
But now they cast them down, and each receives a crown,
Whey they chant their never ending song:
"Our Saviour and our King!
His victories shall ring!
His conquests thro' eternity shall sound!
(And war shall be no)
War (more) shall be no more -
we have reach'd the shore -
Safely reach'd our last grand camping ground."
While thro' lovely dells, grander music swells -
Richer chords from rarer harps of gold -
List that soft refrain, that sweet vocal strain,
Wherein now the victors' deeds are told:
How they toil'd in darkness, battling the wrong -
How, in hours of weakness, Jesus made them strong.
Acknowledg'd as his own he seats them on his throne,
While they join the never ending song.