Rest for the toiling hand,
Rest for the anxious brow,
Rest for the weary, waysore feet,
Rest from all labor now.
Rest for the fevered brain,
Rest for the throbbing eye;
Thro' these parched lips of clay no more
Shall pass the moan or sigh.
Rest, weary one, a while,
Till Christ shall bid thee rise;
And soon, as from refreshing sleep,
Thou'lt wake with glad surprise.
Soon, soon from out the dust
Shall all come forth and sing;
Sharp has the frost of winter been
But brightly shines the spring.
Let hope cheer those who weep;
E'en now the rays of dawn
Above the eastern hilltops creep
We're near the light of morn.