| I stood in a lonely room |
| Of a mother old and gray |
| Her voice so weak, she could hardly speak |
| I brushed a tear away |
| She was watching the little snowflakes falling on her window pane |
| She breathed a sigh and then replied, |
| «I'll be gone to be with Jesus |
| Come spring» |
| Before the roses bloom in my garden |
| I’ll be gathering flowers in a better land |
| Before the fields are green, before the robin sings |
| I’ll be gone to be with Jesus come spring |
| There’s a big gate standing open |
| A gentle voice calls me home |
| Soon I’ll be in God’s country |
| In a garden of my own |
| With my troubles far behind me |
| And my body free from pain |
| When the sun melts the snow and the warm winds blow |
| I’ll be gone to be with Jesus, come spring |
| And now the roses bloom in her garden |
| And she’s gathering flowers in a better land |
| She’s gone where angels sing |
| Earth’s loss is Heaven’s gain |
| But we’ll meet when God gathers flowers, come spring |
| I know we’ll meet when God gathers flowers |
| Come spring |