AUNT DINAH'S HYMN.
[Augusta Chronicle.]
De sinner see de mote in de Christian eye,
He can't see the beam in he own ;
He had better go home and keep he house clean,
An' let God's chillen alone.
I'm gwine home to glory,
Gwine to de shinin' town,
Gwine to tell my story,
An' wear the golden crown.
De sinner find fault wid he knows not what,
Can't put nuttin' better in de place ;
Better go er seekin' on de solitary path,
An' git aboard de old ship o' Grace,
For de lightnin' it am flashin',
The thunder loud do roll,
De mitey wave am dashin',
Oh, sinner, save your soul !
De sinners stumble on in er great big crowd,
Er gropin' wid de halt an' de blind,
Dey makes a heap of noise to keep their spirits up,
But they're lackin' of de Christian mind.
Don't turn to Satan callin',
But tuk de helpin' hand,
'Twill sport you in your toilin'
'Long wid the chosen band.
Dey had better keep time to de music of de just.
An' jine in de singin' wid de band,
An' try mitey hard to be among de fust
Dat am pushin' for de promised land,
Whar de holy lamp am burnin',
Whar de saints in glory stand,
To meet de soul returnin'
Home to de happy land.
For de gospel's train am comin' on fast,
Sinner, git er ticket while you kin ;
It's crowded wid de saints, an' will push on past
If you don't hurry up an' git in.
I'm gwine home to glory,
To Canaan's happy land,
I'm gwine to tell my story,
An' wid de blessed stand.