Indexes for The Sacred Harp, 1991 Edition

Our Father’s gone to that bright land,
He dwells with Christ, the King;
And with the saints of old doth stand,
While all the angels sing.

Around dear Mother’s bed we stood
And watched her dying face;
While Jesus bade her spirit come
And take a heav’nly place.

Their forms on earth no more we see,
They’re hidden from our view;
Their mem’ries linger still with me,
As noble, good and true.

Could we but stand and view that goal,
’Twould dry our briny tears;
True love and joy there to behold,
Would banish all our fears.