I'M a pilgrim, and I'm a stranger, I can tarry, I can tarry but a night ; Do not detain me, for I am going To where the streamlets are ever flowing.
I'm a pil - grim, . . and I'm a stran - ger ; . . I can tarry, I can tarry but a night : . . . I'M a pil - grim, . . and I'm a stran - - ger ! . . 1 can tarry, I can tarry but a night. . . .
2. Of that city, to which I journey, My Redeemer, my Redeemer is the light; There is no sorrow, nor any sighing, Nor any tears there, nor any dying.
3. There the sunbeams are ever shining ; Oh, my longing heart, my longing heart is there ; Here in this country, so dark and dreary, 1 long have wandered forlorn and weary.