Wayfaring stranger

American

I am a poor wayfaring stranger,
Traveling through this world of woe,
But there's no sickness, nor toil, nor range,
In that bright to which I go.

I'm going there to see my mother,
I'm going there no more to roam,
I'm just a-going over Jordan,
I'm just a-going over home.

I know dark clouds will gather 'round me,
I know my way is rough and steep,
But beauteous fields arise before me,
Where souls redeemed their vigil keep.

I'm going there to see my mother,
She said she'd meet me when I come,
I'm just a-going over Jordan,
I'm just a-going over home.