92
THE REST-BELL.
Busy hands are idly folded,
Slumber seems to seal each breath,
And the laborer's song is silent—
(Sleep! thou art akin to death.)
Slumber seems to seal each breath,
And the laborer's song is silent—
(Sleep! thou art akin to death.)
They will wait, and rest, and waken,
Where each listless form hath lain:
When the Master's voice arouse them,
They will hear and rise again.
Where each listless form hath lain:
When the Master's voice arouse them,
They will hear and rise again.
Myriad host of unseen watchers
O'er their rest a guard shall keep,
Lest the enemy assail them
In their deep and quiet sleep.
O'er their rest a guard shall keep,
Lest the enemy assail them
In their deep and quiet sleep.
All along life's desert journey,
Marked by mingled joy and woe,
Softly as the summer lightning
Holy angels come and go.
Marked by mingled joy and woe,
Softly as the summer lightning
Holy angels come and go.
Gently guiding wandering children
To their own appointed place;
Watching where the dust lies sleeping
Of each cherished heir of grace.
To their own appointed place;
Watching where the dust lies sleeping
Of each cherished heir of grace.
There the toil-worn garments folded,
Till they roll away the stone,
And the shout proclaims for ever
Christ's blessed message from the Throne.
Till they roll away the stone,
And the shout proclaims for ever
Christ's blessed message from the Throne.
