« IndietroContinua »
632 SHINING SHORE 8, 7, D.
2 Father in Heaven! O, hear when we call;
George F. Root
My days are gliding swift-ly by, And I, a pil-grim stranger, Would not de
tain them as they fly, Those hours of toil and dan ger; For O, we stand on
Jor-dan's strand, Our friends are passing over; And just before, the shining shore
We may almost dis-cov-er. A-MEN.
3 Should coming days be cold and dark,
2 We'll gird our loins, my brethren dear, 4 Let sorrow's rudest tempest blow,
Our distant home discerning;
Our absent Lord has left us word,
Let every lamp be burning:
For O, we, etc.
Each chord on earth to sever :
For O, we, etc.
Joy - fully,
spirits a. bove; haste to thy home!
the land of bright spirits I
move, Bound to the
pilgrim - age
A. D. Merrill
Harps of the blessed, your voices I hear!
land of bright joy - fully
2 Friends, fondly cherished, have passed on before;
Sounds of sweet melody fall on my ear;
Pilgrim and stranger no
roam, Joyfully, joy - fully resting at home. A MEN.
d. d. d.
Lord, for to-morrow and its needs I do not pray; Keep me, my God, from
2 Let me no wrong or idle word
Set Thou a seal upon my lips
Let me in season, Lord, be grave,
H. R. Palmer
be kind in word and deed, Father, to day. AMEN.
O Thou, who art in spiring My yearning and
say, "Dear God, Thy will
hear - est al ways when I pray! Hear on - ly, what so.
2 I could not joy in praying,
3 Such dread, my faith o'ertasking,
4 Let not my selfish crying
Disturb Thy love's replying!
I shall not mourn the things I miss
If Thou but make me sure of this;
Dear God, Thy will be done,
And Thine alone!
Rossiter W. Raymond
Far from my heaven-ly home,
2 Upon the willows long
My harp has silent hung; How should I sing a cheerful song, Till Thou inspire my tongue?
I cry "Blest Spirit, come! And speed me
3 My spirit homeward turns,
And fain would thither flee: My heart, O Zion, droops and yearns, When I remember thee.
I Come, Lord, and tarry not;
Bring the long looked-for day;
Far from my
2 Come, for creation groans,
5 Come, and begin Thy reign
4 To thee, to thee I press,
A dark and toilsome road: When shall I pass the wilderness, And reach the saints' abode?
5 God of my life, be near!
On Thee my hopes I cast: O, guide me through the desert here And bring me home at last!
Henry F. Lyte
3 Come, for love waxes cold,
Its steps are faint and slow; Faith now is lost in unbelief, Hope's lamp burns dim and low.
4 Come, and make all things new; Build up this ruined earth; Restore our faded Paradise, Creation's second birth.