Whose Hand Will Stand

I desire my hand to stand When the harvest work is done, We await the hour, hopefully to a quite quaint land, Where the yearnings have ceased and there's no sound of a gun, For we have sailed the sea for long; We withstood with courage the climes we grew strong, But the time to go home nears, Any moment we may sail the sea no more! This curse we had known; The conviction is no surprise, Though we're born error-prone, But back home every deed has a price! And you will pay yours in dividends until you atone, Without choice nor chance for bribes to entice, It's blood and tears and weariness to bone! I ask you now, When they call us home, Will your hand stand? Where will death find you? How far from the Lord will you be?