My days are gliding swiftly by

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

We'll gird our loins, my brethren dear, Our distant home discerning; Our absent Lord has left us word, Let every lamp be burning.

Should coming days be cold and dark, We need not cease our singing; That perfect rest nought can molest, Where golden harps are ringing.

Let sorrow's rudest tempest blow, Each cord on earth to sever; Our Lord says, Come, and there's our home For ever and for ever!

For O we stand on Jordan's strand, Our friends are passing over, And just before, the shining shore We may almost discover.