The Pageant (Audio Poem)

Parading through the City streets,
Up the hills and through the light,
Hordes of saints go up the flight
Where glowing sun meets
the waning night.

Angels greeting them for their march;
Rushing wind blowing through the air,
Paraders routing to a Chair
Beyond the blue and silver arch,
in City fair.

Adorning now our dear deceaced,
Woolen gowns of purest white,
Crimson fringed the hue of light--
Robes shorn from the Lamb's dear fleece
and God's delight.

A shining circle surrounds His throne;
Their crowns are cast before His feet.
A thund'ring praise welcomes the fleet
Of weary pilgrims now come home
to Yahweh's Seat!