Scripture Verse

A rest to the people of God. Hebrews 4:9


Words: Sam­uel Y. Har­mer, 1856. Writ­ten for a camp meet­ing Col­lect­ion be­ing com­piled by Rev. John Glad­ding (Hat­field, p. 293).

Music: John W. Dad­mun (1819–1890) (🔊 pdf nwc).

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

John W. Dadmun (1819–1890)

A fif­teen-year­old girl, of good fa­mi­ly, was pre­sent at one of our meet­ings in the Free Col­lege Church in Glas­gow [Scot­land], in 1874, and at the close of the meet­ing re­mained among the in­quir­ers at the Col­lege Hall.

Here she was spo­ken to by a la­dy, and was led to Christ. Go­ing home, she told her mo­ther that she was now hap­py in the Lord. That ve­ry night she was ta­ken sick, symp­toms of scar­let fe­ver ap­pear­ing.

Prayer was of­fered for her at the dai­ly prayer meet­ings. Per­haps most of her friends thought that the Lord would an­swer their sup­pli­ca­tions by re­stor­ing her to health; but he had a pur­pose of an­oth­er kind. He meant to take her away to him­self, and to teach oth­ers by her re­mov­al.

When it was ev­ident that she was dy­ing, she told her fa­ther that she was go­ing home to Christ.

Near the end, he tried to sing with her “In the Chris­tian’s home in glo­ry.” She caught up the words, There my Sav­iour’s gone be­fore me, To ful­fill my soul’s re­quest and faith­ful­ly re­peat­ed them.

Her voice died away; those were the last words she was heard to ut­ter. Be­fore this she had sent a mes­sage of thanks to Mr. Moody and my­self, and to the la­dy who had led her to Christ.

Ah, said Mr. Moody, in tell­ing of this, would not any one have re­gret­ted miss­ing the op­por­tu­ni­ty of help­ing this soul, who has sent back her thanks from the ve­ry por­tals of glo­ry?

Sankey, pp. 225–26


In the Chris­tian’s home in glo­ry
There re­mains a land of rest;
There my Sav­ior’s gone before me,
To ful­fill my soul’s re­quest.


There is rest for the wea­ry,
There is rest for the wea­ry,
There is rest for the wea­ry,
There is rest for you.
On the oth­er side of Jor­dan,
In the sweet fields of Ed­en,
Where the tree of life is bloom­ing,
There is rest for you.

He is fit­ting up my man­sion,
Which eter­nal­ly shall stand,
For my stay shall not be tran­si­ent,
In that ho­ly, hap­py land.


Pain and sick­ness ne’er shall en­ter,
Grief nor woe my lot shall share;
But, in that ce­les­ti­al cen­ter,
I a crown of life shall wear.


Death it­self shall then be van­quished,
And his sting shall be with­drawn;
Shout for glad­ness, O ye ran­somed!
Hail with joy the ris­ing morn.