A rest re­main­eth for the wea­ry;
Arise, sad heart, and grieve no more;
Though long the way, and dark and drea­ry,
It end­eth on the gold­en shore.
Before His throne the Lamb will lead thee,
On heav’n­ly pas­tures He will feed thee,
Cast off thy bur­den, come with haste;
Soon will the toil and strife be end­ed,
The wea­ry way which thou hast wend­ed.
Sweet is the rest which thou shalt taste.

The Fa­ther’s house has many a dwell­ing,
And there will be a place for thee.
With per­fect love His heart is well­ing
Who loved thee from eter­n­ity.
His pre­cious blood the Lamb hath giv­en
That thou might’st share the joys of Hea­ven,
And now He call­eth far and near:
Ye wea­ry souls, cease your re­pin­ing,
Come while for you My light is shining;
Come, sweet­est rest awaits you here!

O come, come all, ye weak and wea­ry,
Ye souls bowed down with ma­ny a care;
Arise and leave your dun­geons drea­ry
And list­en to His pro­mise fair:
Ye bore your bur­dens meek and low­ly,
I will ful­fill My pledge most ho­ly,
I’ll be your so­lace and your rest.
Ye are Mine own, I will re­quite you;
Though sin and Sa­tan seek to smite you,
Rejoice! Your home is with the blest.

There rest and peace in end­less mea­sure
Shall be ours through eter­ni­ty;
No grief, no care, shall mar our plea­sure,
And un­told bliss our lot shall be.
Oh, had we wings to hast­en yon­der—
No more o’er earth­ly ills to pon­der—
To join the glad, tri­um­phant band!
Make haste, my soul, for­get all sad­ness;
For peace awaits thee, joy and glad­ness—
The perfect rest is nigh at hand.