Scripture Verse

The Lord Himself shall descend from Heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first. 1 Thessalonians 4:16


Horatius Bonar (1808–1889)

Words: Ho­ra­ti­us Bo­nar, cir­ca 1855. These words have ap­peared in ov­er 80 hym­nals, oft­en as cen­tos be­gin­ning with the stan­zas Rest for the toil­ing hand or Soon shall the trump of God. Ju­lian, page 674, states the words ap­peared in Bo­nar’s 1857 Hymns of Faith and Hope, but they were in print as ear­ly as 1855 in a hym­nal pub­lished in Ro­ches­ter, New York.

Music: Festal Song Will­iam H. Wal­ter, in the Epis­co­pal Hym­nal with Tunes Old and New, by John I. Tuck­er, 1872 (🔊 pdf nwc).

Alternate Tune:

  • Selden ano­ny­mous, in Church Mu­sic (Ro­ches­ter, New York: E. Dar­row & Bro­ther, 1855), page 220 (🔊 pdf nwc)

If you know where to get a good pho­to of Wal­ter (head & shoul­ders, at least 200×300 pix­els),


Lie down, frail bo­dy, here,
Earth has no fair­er bed,
No gentl­er pil­low to afford,
Come, rest thy home-sick head.

Lie down, vile bo­dy! here,
This mould is smooth­ly strewn;
No couch of flow­ers more soft­ly spread—
Come, make this grave thine own.

Lie down, with all thy aches,
There is no ach­ing here;
How soon shall all thy life-long ills
For ever dis­ap­pear.

Thro’ these well guard­ed gates
No foe can en­trance gain,
No sick­ness wastes, nor once in­trudes
The me­mo­ry of pain.

The toss­ings of the night,
The fret­tings of the day,
All end; and like a cloud of dawn,
Melt from thy skies away.

Footsore and worn thou art,
Breathless with toil and fight;
How wel­come the long sought rest
Of all this all tran­quil night.

Brief night and qui­et couch
In some star light­ed room,
Watched but by one be­lov­èd eye
Whose light dis­pels all gloom.

A sky with­out a cloud,
A sea with­out a wave—
These are but sha­dows of thy rest
In this thy peace­ful grave.

Rest for the toil­ing hand,
Rest for the anx­ious brow,
Rest for the wea­ry, way-worn feet,
Rest from all la­bor now.

Rest for the fe­vered brain,
Rest for the throb­bing eye;
Through these parched lips of thine no more
Shall pass the moan or sigh.

Soon shall the trump of God
Give out the wel­come sound,
That shakes death’s si­lent cham­ber walls,
And breaks the turf-sealed ground.

You dwell­ers in the dust,
Awake, come forth, and sing;
Sharp has your frost of win­ter been,
But bright shall be your spring.

’Twas sown in weak­ness here;
’Twill then be raised in pow­er;
That which was sown an earth­ly seed
Shall rise a heav’n­ly flow­er.