I am a poor, wayfaring stranger,
While journ’ying through this world of woe,
Yet, there’s no sickness, toil nor danger,
In that bright land to which I go.
I’m going there to see my Father,
I’m going there no more to roam;

I’m only going over Jordan,
I’m only going over home.

I know dark clouds will gather o’er me,
I know my way is rough and steep;
Yet beaut’ous fields lie just before me,
Where God’s redeemed their vigils keep.
I’m going there to see my Mother,
She said she’d meet me when I come.


I want to wear a crown of glory,
When I get home to that good land;
I want to shout Salvation’s story,
In concert with the blood-washed band.
I’m going there to meet my Savior,
To sing His praise forevermore;


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