All my trials,
Lord,
soon be over
I've got a little book with pages three And every page
spells liberty
All my trials,
Lord,
soon be over
The river of Jordan is muddy and cold Well,
it chills the body
but not the soul
If living were a thing that money could buy
The rich would live
and the poor would die All my trials,
Lord,
soon be over
There grows a tree in paradise And the pilgrims call it
the tree of life
