My days are gliding swiftly by,
And I a pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly,
Those hours of toil and danger.

Cho. -- For, oh! 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 heav'nly home discerning;
Our absent Lord has left us word, --
|Let ev'ry lamp be burning.|

3 Should coming days be cold and dark,
We need not cease our singing;
That perfect rest none 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,
Forever, oh! forever!

David Nelson, 1835.