Classic Poem

When the weary at heart and the laden with sin
Have open'd to Jesus the things that have been,
When all is forgiven, for all is confess'd,
In the blood of His cross there is rest, blessèd rest.

When in struggling for right and in wrestling with wrong
The rough doubtful path seems most lonesome and long,
Ah, then like a babe by its mother caress'd
In the bosom of Jesus is rest, blessèd rest.

When the home of our childhood is shadow'd and dim
And the loved ones we clung to are gather'd to Him,
While we nestle and weep on His sheltering breast,
Still, still Jesus only is rest, blessèd rest.

But the shadows shall pass and the tears shall be dried
And the light and the love shall for ever abide:
Without cloud, without end, inexpressibly blest
For the people of God there remaineth a rest.