At first we think of streets of gold,
Of gates of pearl and dazzling light,
Of shining wings and robes of white,
And things all strange to mortal sight.
But in the afterward of years
It is a more familiar place--
A home unhurt by sighs or tears,
Where waitheth many a well-known face.
With passing months it comes more near.
It grows more real day by day;
Not strange or cold, but very dear--
The glad homeland not far away,
Where none are sick, or poor, or lone,
The place where we shall find our own.
And as we think of all we knew,
Who there have met to part no more,
Our longing hearts desire home, too,
With all the strife and trouble o'er.
