There is sweet rest for feet now weary,
In the rugged, upward way;
There is a morn when midnight dreary
Shall be lost in perfect day.

For that blest morn our hearts are longing,
When shall end earth's night of woe;
When, through those pearly portals thronging,
Mortal cares we'll leave below.

Soon to that city, bright, eternal,
Weary pilgrims all shall go;
Soon we shall rest in pastures vernal,
Where life's waters ceaseless flow.

Father above, in mercy guide us
To those mansions of the blest;
Safe in the Rock of Ages hide us
Till we gain our final rest.