Four voices, unaccompanied, are singing old
American hymns, and I love the sound of the
sound I hear. I am a wayfaring stranger on my
journey home like Noah's weary dove or the
wagoner's lad at the mercy-seat pleading 'Saviour'
at the shining shore seeking the green pasture
and a saint's delight just over in Gloryland.
(I've got my lament where we'll never grow old).