Scripture Verse

There remaineth…a rest to the people of God. Hebrews 4:9


Words: Jo­hann S. Kunth, cen­to (Es ist noch eine Ruh vor­hand­en). Com­po­site trans­la­tion from Ger­man to Eng­lish.

Music: Wie wohl ist mir Geist­reich­es Ge­sang­buch (Hal­le, Ger­ma­ny: 1704) (🔊 pdf nwc).

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

The hymn was wri­tten in 1731 or 1732, while Kunth was jour­ney­ing with his pa­tron, Count Erd­man Hein­rich von Hen­kel, who was on his way to take pos­ses­sion of some pro­pe­rty in Si­le­sia.

On the way the car­riage broke down, and this de­lay gave the Count oc­ca­sion to mur­mur at the cease­less un­rest of this life. Kunth, re­mind­ing him of the be­liev­er’s ev­er­last­ing rest, stepped aside a mo­ment and then re­turned with this hymn.

Koch adds that it com­fort­ed the dy­ing hours of Hein­rich Möwes, be­ing read to him by his wife in his last mo­ments on earth.

Julian, p. 634


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.