Oh! surely for thee were the gates ajar,
As thy chariot onward sped,
When with brightened eye and youth renewed,
Triumphant thou did’st tread
Through the gates of death, to the portals bright,
While the ransomed myriads sing,
“Lift up your heads, ye Golden Gates,”
Let the aged pilgrim in.
No terrors for thee had the darksome vale,
For like the wise virgins of old,
Thou keep’st thy lamp burning and trimmed from thy youth,
Till three-score and ten were well told.
And oft, as a shepherd, that tends his flock,
Thou did’st then to still waters lead,
And ’mid the green pastures of justified grace,
Thou lovedst thy children to feed.
Then Pastor and Leader, fond Parent, adieu,
Till the last, grand trump shall sound,
When shepherd and flock united once more,
Shall echo a long harvest home.