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 chord on earth to sever;
Our King says Come, and there’s our home,
Forever, oh, forever.
Rev. David Nelson, 1835