There is a calm be­yond life’s fit­ful fe­ver,
A deep re­pose, an ev­er­last­ing rest;
Where white-robed ang­els wel­come the be­liev­er
Among the blest, among the blest.
There is a home,
Where all the soul’s deep yearn­ings,
And si­lent pray­ers shall be at last ful­filled;
Where strife and sor­row,
Murmurings and heart burn­ings
At last are stilled, at last are stilled.

There is a hope, to which the Chris­tian, cling­ing,
Is lift­ed high above life’s surg­ing wave;
Finds life in death, and fade­less flow­ers spring­ing
From the dark grave, from the dark grave.
There is a crown
Prepared for those who love Him;
The Chris­tian sees it in the dist­ance shine,
Like a bright bea­con
Glittering above him,
And whis­pers, Mine! and whis­pers, Mine!

There is a spot­less robe of Christ’s own weav­ing;
Will you not wrap it round your sin-stained soul?
Poor wan­der­ing child, up­on thy past life griev­ing,
Christ makes thee whole! Christ makes thee whole!
There is a home,
A harp, a crown in Hea­ven;
Alas! that any should Thy gift re­fuse!
The aw­ful choice of life
And death is giv­en—
Which wilt thou choose? Which wilt thou choose?