My days are gliding swiftly by;
And I, a pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly,
Those hours of toil and labor.
For, oh! we stand on Jordan’s strand;
Our friends are passing over;
And, just before, the shining shore
We may almost discover.
We’ll gird our loins, my brethren dear,
Our distant home discerning:
Our waiting Lord has left us word,
Let ev’ry lamp be burning.
Should coming days be cold and dark,
We need not cease our singing:
That perfect rest naught can molest,
Where golden harps are ringing.
Let sorrow’s rudest tempest blow,
Each cord on earth to sever:
Our King says, “Come,” and there’s our home,
Forever, oh! forever.