Beds of roses; golden pathways,

Every room that knows its name.

Hear the angels’ music making,

O this paradise of fame.

There our Father went

To inscribe the letters of your name;

On that special door He purchased,

With crimson blood and valiant shame.

This was your hope, and now your present glory—

To find a room with your name.

And you have seen the angels singing,

Yes, His paradise, at last, to claim.

He said: Child, you know the way.

Where I am, you’ll be some day.

Trust My voice, and I will lead you there.