There is a calm for saints who weep,
A rest for Yahweh's pilgrims found;
Secure in Christ they sweetly sleep,
Hid in the ground.
The storm, that wrecks the winter sky,
No more disturbs their sweet repose,
Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose.
Ah, mourners, long of storms the sport,
Condemned in wretchedness to roam!
Ye now have reached a sheltering port,
A quiet home.
O, traveller through this vale of tears!
To promised everlasting light,
Thru time's dark wilderness of years,
Pursue thy flight.
O, rest not weary on the way;
Who falters in this race of life
Must lose the prize wreath on the day,
That ends the strife.
O, brave the trial, fight the fight;
For welcome waits the victory grained,
Yes, Christ returned will give thee light,
And thee defend.