THE FLESH RESTING IN HOPE.

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Rest for the toiling hand,

Rest for the thought-worn brow, Rest for the weary way-sore feet,

Rest from all labor now.

Rest for the fevered brain,

Rest for the throbbing eye;

Thro' these parched lips of thine no more, the moan or sigh.

Shall pass

Soon shall the trump of God

Give out the welcome sound,

That shakes thy silent chamber-walls
And breaks the turf-sealed ground.

Ye dwellers in the dust,

Awake, come forth and sing; Sharp has your frost of winter been, But bright shall be your spring.

'Twas sown in weakness here;

"Twill then be raised in power. That which was sown an earthly seed, Shall rise a heavenly flower.

REST.

Nor long, not long!-The spirit-wasting fever
Of this strange life shall quit each throbbing vein;
And this wild pulse flow placidly for ever;
And endless peace relieve the burning brain.

Earth's joys are but a dream; its destiny

Is but decay and death. Its fairest form Sunshine and shadow mixed. Its brightest day A rainbow braided on the wreaths of storm.

Yet there is blessedness that changeth not;
A rest with God, a life that cannot die;
A better portion and a brighter lot;

A home with Christ, a heritage on high.

Hope for the hopeless, for the weary, rest,
More gentle than the still repose of even!
Joy for the joyless, bliss for the unblest;

Homes for the desolate in yonder heaven!

The tempest makes returning calm more dear;
The darkest midnight makes the brightest star,
Even so to us when all is ended here,

Shall be the past, remembered from afar.

Then welcome change and death! Since these alone
Can break life's fetters, and dissolve its spell;
Welcome all present change, which speeds us on
So swift to that which is unchangeable.

A PILGRIM'S SONG.

A FEW more years shall roll,

A few more seasons come; And we shall be with those that rest, Asleep within the tomb.

Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that great day;
O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

A few more suns shall set

O'er these dark hills of time;

And we shall be where suns are not,

A far serener clime.

Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that blest day;

O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

A few more storms shall beat

On this wild rocky shore;

A PILGRIM'S SONG.

And we shall be where tempests cease,

And surges swell no more.
Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that calm day;
O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

A few more struggles here,
A few more partings o'er,
A few more toils, a few more tears,
And we shall weep no more.
Then, O my Lord, prepare

My soul for that blest day;
O wash me in thy precious blood,
And take my sins away.

A few more Sabbaths here

Shall cheer us on our way;
And we shall reach the endless rest,
The eternal Sabbath-day.*

* The old Latin hymn expresses this well:

"Illic nec sabbato

Succedit sabbatum,

Perpes lætitia

Sabbatizantium.

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