My days are gliding swiftly by,
And I, a pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly,
These hours of toil and danger.
For now 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 heav'nly home discerning;
Our absent 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 tempests blow,
Each chord on earth to sever;
Our King says, Come, and there's our home,
Forever and forever.