Rest, Till Morning Dawns

Rest for the toiling hand, Rest for the anxious 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 clay no more Shall pass the moan or sigh.

Rest, weary one, a while, Till Christ shall bid thee rise; And soon, as from refreshing sleep, Thou' lt wake with glad surprise.

Soon, soon from out the dust Shall all come forth and sing; Sharp has the frost of winter been But brightly shines the spring.

Let hope cheer those who weep; E' en now the rays of dawn Above the eastern hilltops creep We' re near the light of morn.