Sunningdale 8,7

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

Chorus
For, oh! we stand on Jordan’s strand;
Our friends are passing over;
And, just before, the shining shore
We may almost discover.

Should coming days be cold and dark,
We need not cease our singing:
That perfect rest naught can molest,
Where golden harps are ringing.
[Chorus]

Let sorrow’s rudest tempest blow,
Each chord on earth to sever:
Our King says come and there’s our home,
Forever, oh! forever.
[Chorus]