The shining shore.

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

We'll gird our loins, my brethren dear, Our heavenly 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 naught can molest Where golden harps are ringing.

Let sorrow's rudest tempest blow, Each chord on earth to sever, Our King says come, and there's our home For ever, oh, for ever!