There’s lots of music in ’em, the hymns of long ago;

An’ when some gray-haired brother sings the ones I used to know

I sorter want to take a hand—I think o’ days gone by—

“On Jordan’s stormy banks I stand and cast a wishful 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 memory dreaming stands,

“From Greenland’s icy mountains to India’s coral strands.”

We hardly needed singin’ books in them old days: we knew

The words, the tunes, of every one, the dear old hymn book through!

We had no blaring trumpets then, no organs built for show;

We only sang to praise the Lord, “from whom all blessings flow.”

An’ so I love the dear old hymns, and when my time shall come—

Before the light has left me and my singing lips are dumb—

If I can only hear ’em then, I’ll pass, without a sigh,

“To Canaan’s fair and happy land, where my possessions lie!”

—Frank L. Stanton in The Atlanta Constitution