Beyond the val­ley lying low,
Through which our feet some day shall go—
Beyond the hill’s so pur­ple haze,
That stretch­es far be­yond our gaze—
There is a place, so hap­pi­ly blest,
Which here we call The Land of Rest.

A land with hills and val­leys fair,
And many of our loved are there;
So si­lent­ly, and one by one
They went the lone­some jour­ney on;
All, fold­ed hands up­on their breast,
Went out into The Land of Rest.

I long that hap­py bourne to see,
I long to know how it will be,
When first these eyes of mine be­hold
The land of which the pro­phets told.
Of my in­her­it­ance pos­sessed,
When shall I reach The Land of Rest?

O bless­èd land! O time so slow!
Not with re­luct­ance I shall go,
But on my lips a hap­py song,
That it, the day looked for so long,
Has come to take me to that blest—
That peace­ful land, The Land of Rest.