Spring clouds come scuddin’ in the crystal creek blue sky;
A man could ride beneath and never ask them why
Their streaks of white are like the tracks of wagon wheels—
Why he only stares – never says just how he feels.
The big day’s surly comin’ upon us too soon—
It will be in the night or in the afternoon—
And all the good and fine on earth will be taken;
With just the evil now among us forsaken.
My horse will be trottin’; but I sure won’t be there;
He’ll ride on without me as I fly in the air—
Leastways, so I hope when that judgment day does come—
When I lift to heaven and hear that sacred drum.
That time will soon be comin’ – each day it grows nigh,
As the chosen leave that soil and soar in the sky—
Yes, earth will grow empty and be a sullen pod,
As we find our home on the open range of God.