My days are gliding swiftly by,

And I a pilgrim stranger,

Would not detain them as they fly—

Those hours of toil and danger.

CHORUS.

For O! we stand on Jordan’s strand,

Our friends are passing over;

And just before, the shining shore

We may almost discover.

2 We’ll gird our loins, my brethren dear,

Our distant home discerning;

Our absent Lord has left us word,

Let every lamp be burning.

3 Should coming days be cold and dark,

We need not cease our singing;

That perfect rest nought can molest,

Where golden harps are ringing.

4 Let sorrow’s rudest tempest blow,

Each cord on earth to sever;

Our King says, “Come,” and there’s our home,

For ever, O! for ever.