This text comes from Mediaeval Hymns and Sequences, edited by John Mason Neale, a historical songbook transcribed on Wikisource and reproduced from the pinned revision linked below.
The Church, on earth, with answering love,
Echoes her mother's joys above:
These yearly feast-days she may keep,
And yet for endless festals weep.
In this world's valley, dim and wild,
That Mother must assist the child;
And heavenly guards must pitch their tents,
And range their ranks in our defence.
The world, the flesh, and Satan's rage,
Their differing wars against us wage;
And when their phantom-hosts come on,
The Sabbath of the heart is gone:
This triple league, with fierce dislike,
At holy festivals would strike:
And set the battle in array
To drive their peace from earth away.
And storms confused above us lower
Of hope and fear and joy and woe;
And scarcely ev'n for one half hour
Is silence in God's House below.
That distant City, oh how blest,
Whose feast-days know nor pause nor rest!
How gladsome is that Palace gate,
Bound which nor fear nor sorrow wait!
Nor languor here, nor weary age,
Nor fraud, nor dread of hostile rage;
But one the joy, and one the song,
And one the heart of all the throng!
The Saints whose praise to-day we sing
Are standing now before the Throne,
And face to nice behold the King
In all His Majesty made known.
In that serene and glorious place
When this life's many toils are past,
Christ, of His everlasting Grace,
Grant us to join the Blest at last!