There is an hour of peace­ful rest,
To mourn­ing wan­der­ers giv­en;
There is a joy for souls dis­tressed,
A balm for ev­ery wound­ed breast,
’Tis found above in Heav’n.

There is a soft, a dow­ny bed,
Far from these shades of ev­en—
A couch for wea­ry mor­tals spread,
Where they may rest the ach­ing head
And find re­pose in Heav­en.

There is a home for wea­ry souls
By sin and sor­row driv­en;
When tossed on life’s tem­pes­tu­ous shoals,
When storms arise, and ocean rolls,
And all is drear but Heav’n.

There, faith lifts up her cheer­ful eye,
To bright­er pros­pects giv­en;
And views the tem­pest pass­ing by,
The ev­en­ing sha­dows quick­ly fly,
And all se­rene in Heav’n.

There, frag­rant flow­ers, im­mor­tal bloom,
And joys su­preme are giv­en;
There, rays di­vine dis­perse the gloom:
Beyond the con­fines of the tomb,
Appears the dawn of Heav’n.