Should sorrow o’er thy brow
Its darkened shadows fling,
And hopes that cheer thee now
Die in their early spring;
Should pleasure at its birth
Fade like the hues of ev’n,
Turn thou away from earth,
There’s rest for thee in Heav’n.

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There’s rest, there’s rest,
There’s rest for thee in Heaven,
O turn from earth away,
There’s rest for thee in Heav’n.

If ever life should seem
To thee a toilsome way—
And gladness cease to beam
Upon its clouded day;
If like the weary dove,
O’er shoreless oceans driven;
Raise thou thine eyes above,
There’s rest for thee in Heav’n.

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But O, if thornless flowers
Throughout thy pathway bloom—
And joyfully fleet the hours,
Unstained by earthly gloom—
Still, let not every thought
To this poor world be given;
Nor always be forgot
Thy better rest in Heav’n.

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When sickness pales thy cheek
And dims thy lustrous eye,
And pulses low and week
Tell of a time to die—
Sweet hope will whisper then,
Though thou from earth be riven,
There’s bliss beyond the ken,
There’s rest for thee in Heav’n!

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