His rest—no tongue can tell
The joy of soul these words impart
To one who knows full well
That earth can ne’er delight his heart.
That there, beyond the reach
Of all the sorrows, tumults, cares,
Which yet their lessons teach,
Remains the rest his spirit seeks.
His rest—the One in whom
Our hearts have learned to make their boast,
Who, when we’d earn’d the doom
Of sin, redeem’d at such a cost
Our guilty souls, and all
His changeless love has made us know:
Whose word can never fail,
Whose boundless grace doth ceaseless flow.
His rest—no human word
Can add to this most blessed sound;
No mortal ear has heard,
No mortal tongue has ever found
One word to equal this,
That He, Himself, shall find His rest
In all that perfect bliss
Bestow’d by Him upon the blest.
His rest—shall we then long
To find our rest where He had none,
Whose wondrous path along
This Satan-govern’d world was one
Of ceaseless strife and work!
Our pattern He, nor ever should these
Hearts allow one thought to lurk
Of present comfort, rest or ease.
His rest—we then are left
A pilgrim band to thread our way
Alone? Ah? not bereft
Of blessed guidance either night or day.
His word shall search our hearts,
And in God’s path us gently lead,
While priestly grace impart
The suited help to meet our need.
His rest—then onward still
A watching, waiting, working band,
We go, nor rest until
Himself shall speak the blest command,
And we to meet Him rise;
Well done! shall be the record there,
Our hearts shall richly prize
Who endless, perfect blessings share.
J. F. H.