When breaks at last the silver cord,
when the hour has come for wings to fly —
a precious name in the faceless horde
the Lord will call — and rise will I
to meet with God — a servant’s crown
to reign — given a golden throne —
I’ll walk the fruitful field where I’d sown
good seed — a plot to call my own.
Here faith will turn to sight — I’ll see
what wrought the Mighty hand — and reap
full heads of grain — around that living tree —
when takes the Lord my soul to keep.