We are pass­ing, swift­ly pass­ing,
To the dist­ant spirit land,
Old and young alike are go­ing,
To the Jor­dan’s beat­en strand;
One by one the dear ones van­ish,
Passing to the oth­er side,
Many hearts and forms we cher­ish,
O’er its surg­ing bil­lows glide.

Oft me­thinks I hear the boat­man,
Hear the splash­ing of his oar,
Coming on to bear me home­ward,
To the bright and gol­den shore;
Oft, by faith, I hear the cho­rus,
Catch the saints’ tri­um­phal song,
And my spi­rit’s ear­nest long­ings
Would the glo­ri­ous strains pro­long.

But a few more days of sor­row,
And a few more sighs and tears,
Then will come the bright to­mor­row,
Then will end my hopes and fears,
When the an­gel throng will meet me,
In the realms of end­less day,
And the Sav­ior, too, will greet me,
Wiping all my tears away.