My rest is in Hea­ven; my rest is not here;
Then why should I mur­mur when tri­als are near?
Be hushed, my dark spir­it! the worst that can come
But short­ens my jour­ney, and hast­ens thee home.

It is not for me to be seek­ing my bliss
And build­ing my hopes in a re­gion like this:
I look for a ci­ty which hands have not piled;
I pant for a coun­try by sin un­de­filed.

The thorn and the this­tle around me may grow;
I would not lie down up­on ros­es be­low:
I ask not my por­tion, I seek not a rest,
Till I find sweet quiet on Je­sus’ breast.

Afflictions may damp me, they can­not de­stroy:
One glimpse of His love turns them all in­to joy;
The bit­ter­est tears, if He smile but on them,
Like dew in the sun­shine, grow di­amond and gem.

Let doubt then, and dan­ger, my pro­gress op­pose;
They on­ly make Hea­ven more sweet at the close.
Come joy, or come sor­row, whate’er may be­fall,
An hour with my God will make up for it all.

A scrip on my back, and a staff in my hand,
I march on in haste through an en­emy’s land:
The road may be rough, but it can­not be long;
I’ll smooth it with hope, and I’ll cheer it with song.