My days are gliding swiftly by,
And I, a pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly,
Those hours of toil and danger.
For, oh! we stand on Jordan’s strand;
Our friends are passing over;
And, just before, the shining shore
We may almost discover.
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,
For ever, oh! for ever!
Rev. David Nelson/Geo. F. Root