Poems (Kimball)/His Rest
HIS REST.
FAIR is the world wherein we dwell, And day and night Crown miracle with miracle Of new delight; Almost it seems A world of dreams.
But, oh! the World of worlds that lies This world outside, Whose splendors to these human eyes Are yet denied, And seer and saint Have failed to paint!
"Eye hath not seen," our tongues repeat, In rapt belief, When earth blooms fairest round our feet, And sin and grief Withhold their power Some little hour.
But when the heart grows sick with pain, The burden sore, And all our labor seems in vain, And o'er and o'er The sin we fight Returns with might;
When loss and sickness touch us close, And death draws near To take not us, perhaps, but those Than self more dear; When some swift blow Doth lay us low;
Or long discouragement or strife Doth wear away The ardor and the joy of life, Do what we may; And many woes Our doubts disclose—
Far more than glories unconceived Beyond the grave, His rest in whom we have believed Is what we crave: By night and day For rest we pray.
O blessed world! we cry, uncrossed By grief or sin, How will these souls now tempted, tossed, Rejoice to win Those shores that shine With Peace divine!
Jesus, most tried, most tempted One, Dear sinless Lord, What toil was Thine beneath the sun! By scourge and cord, And bitter food, And cruel rood,
That Heavenly Rest for us was bought; And, oh! that we Might count our light affliction nought In following Thee, And here below Its sweetness know!
That sweetness, dearest Lord, at least One hour may bring, When to Thy Presence in the Feast Divine we cling, And wondrously Commune with Thee!
O precious foretaste, Heaven brought near, Within our reach, When, though no glory doth appear Surpassing speech, The soul oppressed Finds here Thy Rest!