Gently on the breath of evening,
When the day’s last beams were leaving,
And the shadows on the hill
Deepened into darkness still,
Came a voice oft heard before
Asking earnestly once more:
“Weary heart, with care opprest,
Wilt thou enter into rest?”
Sadly summer flowers were dying,
Faded autumn wreaths were lying,
And the memory of the past
Came with start and pain at last,
Then the soul, bereft and lone,
Heard again that pitying tone:
“Weary heart, bereaved, distrest,
Wilt thou enter into rest?”
Mournfully the winds were sighing,
All around the dead leaves flying,
And the soul felt cold and chill,
Empty, for earth could not fill,
Troubled, for its strife was vain:
When that low voice spake again,
“Weary heart, forlorn, unblest,
Wilt thou enter into rest?”
Destitute of Hope’s relieving,
Sad, disconsolately grieving,
Watching till the fading day
Silently had passed away,
Till the solemn calm was stirred
By the oft-repeated word:
“Weary heart, here end thy quest,
Come, and I will give thee rest!”
And no longer cold, unheeding,
For the heart, repentant, needing,
Turned aside from earth and sin,
Praying, “Let me enter in.”
And the storm-driven, helpless dove
Flew into the Arms of Love,
Folded on the Saviour’s breast,
Found in Him its final rest!