 | Morning Glories : |  |
75
HE HATH NEED OF REST!
Why stand aghast,
This weeping, wondering throng?
The warrior hath his armor bright lain down,
And now in rapturous song his Master's praise he sings,
While angels sweep their harps of thousands' strings,
The strains prolong:
His fight is over!
This weeping, wondering throng?
The warrior hath his armor bright lain down,
And now in rapturous song his Master's praise he sings,
While angels sweep their harps of thousands' strings,
The strains prolong:
His fight is over!
He hath need of rest.
His weary bleeding feet,
That trod the field with ever patient tread,
The dewy banks have pressed. They tread the streets of gold,
His eyes the Saviour's face and smile behold.
Say not that he is dead, but
He hath need of rest!
His weary bleeding feet,
That trod the field with ever patient tread,
The dewy banks have pressed. They tread the streets of gold,
His eyes the Saviour's face and smile behold.
Say not that he is dead, but
He hath need of rest!
A goodly fight;
A glorious victory won!
At Jesus' feet the trophies are laid down,
And on the warrior's brow is placed the crown
For which he bravely, boldly fought,
And heaven's glorious plaudits sought.
Now, with the ransomed blest
His soul finds rest!
A glorious victory won!
At Jesus' feet the trophies are laid down,
And on the warrior's brow is placed the crown
For which he bravely, boldly fought,
And heaven's glorious plaudits sought.
Now, with the ransomed blest
His soul finds rest!
Weep ye no more,
Nor stand with bated breath;
Christ will his promise to the faithful keep,
The mighty warrior is but fallen asleep.
He feels no more earth's care and toil and pain,
Our loss is but his everlasting gain.
Arrayed in white, in realms of perfect bliss,
He finds a needed rest.
Nor stand with bated breath;
Christ will his promise to the faithful keep,
The mighty warrior is but fallen asleep.
He feels no more earth's care and toil and pain,
Our loss is but his everlasting gain.
Arrayed in white, in realms of perfect bliss,
He finds a needed rest.
Eternal joys are his,
Who to the end proves true:
Ye fellow-warriors in the gospel field!
Fight on, nor dare the battle yield;
Press hard the conflict to the gate,
Walk in the narrow path and straight;
Your upward way from morn to even' press,
At last ye too shall find
Eternal rest!
Who to the end proves true:
Ye fellow-warriors in the gospel field!
Fight on, nor dare the battle yield;
76
Walk in the narrow path and straight;
Your upward way from morn to even' press,
At last ye too shall find
Eternal rest!
| Morning Glories : | |