Swing low, sweet char-i-ot,
Com-ing for to car-ry me home.
Out of the clouds was the chariot coming for him? Yes—wrapt in celestial glory.
Swing low, sweet char-i-ot.
The song died away, and the singers heard no sound within.
But the tired head fell back upon its pillow with a sigh of infinite content, the chariot came, and Uncle Joe forgot the "misery" and the roses alike in passing from supreme shadow to supreme dawn.