Rest.
“I am so tired,” a weary woman said,
And on her pillow laid her aching head;
“I have been toiling hard through all the day,
Dear Lord, I am so tired I cannot pray,
My brain is throbbing, and my eyes are dim,
And all my tired senses seem to swim;
Since Life holds naught for me but toil and pain,
Would I might sleep and never wake again.”
And as she on her pillow lay and wept
Sweet sleep descended on her and she slept.
And in the silent hour of midnight gloom
An angel softly stole into the room,
And gliding noiselessly unto the bed,
Laid its light hand upon the sleeper’s head.
The woman woke and marveled at the sight,
For all the room was filled with radiant light.
Then, as the angel bent and kissed her brow,
She murmured softly, “Tell me who art thou?”
Then as the angel clasped her to its breast
She cried: “I know thee now, thy name is Rest.”
And in the morn they came and found her there,
Her pale, worn features rendered calm and fair,
Beneath the wondrous majesty of Death,
And as they gazed on her with bated breath,
They marveled at the beauty and the grace
That rested on the sleeper’s peaceful face.
And then they robed her form in garments fair,
And from her brow they brushed the soft, brown hair,
And crossed her toil-worn hands upon her breast
And so she slept in sweet, eternal rest.
