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.