From the Omaha Daily Bee, January 3, 1915. By Frank L. Stanton.
There’s a lot of music in ‘em—the hymns of long ago,
And when some gray-haired brother sings the ones I used to know,
I sorter want to take a hand, I think of days gone by,
“On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand and cast a wistful eye!”
There’s lots of music in ‘em—those dear, sweet hymns of old,
With visions bright of lands of light and shining streets of gold;
And I hear ‘em ringing—singing, where mem’ry, dreaming, stands,
“From Greenland’s icy mountains to India’s coral strands.”
They seem to sing forever of holier, sweeter days,
When the lilies of the love of God bloomed white in all the ways;
And I want to hear their music from the old-time meetin’s rise
Till “I can read my title clear to mansions in the skies.”
We never needed singin’ books in them old days—we knew
The words, the tunes of every one—the dear old hymn book through!
We didn’t have no trumpets then, no organs built for show,
We only sang to praise the Lord, “from whom all blessings flow.”
An’ so I love the good old hymns, and when my time shall come—
Before my light has left me and my singing lips are dumb—
If I can hear ‘em sing them then, I’ll pass without a sigh
To “Canaan’s fair and happy land, where my possessions lie.”