Are We Almost There?

1"Are we almost there? Are we almost there?"
Says the weary saint, as he sighs for home;
"Are those the verdant trees that rear
Their stately forms' mid heav'n's bright dome?"

2Then he talks of the flowers, the unsullied stream,
That flows through the Paradise of God;
And he longs to wake from life's troubled dream,
To walk those golden streets abroad,

3He is weary and sick, of this world's rude strife;
And pants for a holy, peaceful clime;
To glow with the vigor of endless life,
And be compass'd no more by the bounds of time.

4His eye is fix'd on the world to come,
He walks by faith through this vale of care,
And oft inquires, as he draws near home,
With anxious heart, "Are we almost there?"

5For he's had an earnest of those joys
Which the righteous alone can ever share;
He turns with contempt from these earthly toys,
And fervently asks—"Are we almost there?"

6Then lift up thine head, rejoice and be glad,
For in that bright world thou'lt never be sad;
And thou shall pass from this world of strife
To the city fair, and the tree of life.

7Then lift up thy heart thou despairing saint,
The Lord will come, thou needs't not faint,
For the Lord's own hand shall wipe from thy face
The last lone tear, and speak to thee peace.