Some times I see in quiet, thoughtful hours
Adown the winding journey of the years,
Beyond a valley full of faded flowers
Whose petals still are wet with human tears,
An open door that looms beside the way,
And many weary pilgrims entering where
A glad face waits to welcome them alway,
And then I know my Father’s house is there.
I care not whether it be built of gold,
With pearly gates and shining sapphire walls,
Or whether it be humble, low, and old,
With footworn thresholds and with homely halls.
I only ask that when my feet have pressed
The journey through, and I have come alone
Unto my Father’s house, that I may rest
Among the loved and lost, and feel at home.