If we believed we should arise and sing,
Dropping our burdens at his pierced feet.
Sorrow would flee and weariness take wing,
Hard things grow fair, and bitter waters sweet.
If we believed, what room for fear or care
Within his arms, safe sheltered on his breast?
Peace for our pain, and hope for our despair,
Is what he meant who said, "I give thee rest."
Why linger, turn away, or idly grieve?
Where else is rest--the soul's supremest need?
Grandly he offers; meanly we receive.
Yet love that gives us rest is love indeed.
The love that rests--say, shall it not do more?
Make haste, sad soul, thy heritage to claim.
It calms; it heals; it bears what erst ye bore,
And marks thy burdens with his own dear name.
Carried in him and for him, can they harm
Or press thee sore, or prove a weary weight?
Nay, nay; into thy life his blessed calm
Shall drop, and thou no more be desolate.