#40Are, We Almost There?

"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 heaven's bright dome."

Then 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.

He 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.

His eye is fixed 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?"

They bid him look at the charms of earth, At the boasted trophies man doth rear; To enter the giddy halls of mirth– But ah! How vain do they all appear.

For 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?"

He is waiting to hear the trumpet sound, And to meet his Saviour in the air; The day-star dawns—soon with joyous bound, He can say indeed–"We are almost there!"