My Days Are Gliding Swiftly By

my days are gliding swiftly by;
and i, a pilgrim stranger,
would not detain them as they fly,
those hours of toil and labor.

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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.

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should coming days be cold and dark,
we need not cease our singing:
that perfect rest naught can molest,
where golden harps are ringing.

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let sorrow’s rudest tempest blow,
each cord on earth to sever:
our king says, “come,” and there’s our home,
forever, oh! forever.

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