Oh, How Blest Are Ye Whose Toils Are Ended

Oh

how blest are ye whose toils are end­ed!

Who

through death

have un­to God as­cend­ed!

Ye have aris­en

From the cares which keep us still in pri­son.

We are still as in a dun­geon liv­ing

Still op­pressed with sor­row and mis­giv­ing;

Our un­der­tak­ings

Are but toils

and trou­bles

and heart-break­ings.

Ye mean­while

are in your cham­bers sleep­ing

Quiet

and set free from all our weep­ing;

No cross nor tri­al

Hinders your en­joy­ments with de­ni­al.

Christ has wiped away your tears for ev­er;

Ye have that for which we still en­dea­vor.

To you are chant­ed

Songs which yet no mor­tal ear have haunt­ed.

Ah! who would not

then

de­part with glad­ness

To in­her­it Heav­en for earth­ly sad­ness?

Who here would lang­uish

Longer in be­wail­ing and in ang­uish?

Come

O Christ

and loose the chains that bind us!

Lead us forth

and cast this world be­hind us!

With Thee

the An­oint­ed

Finds the soul its joy and rest ap­point­ed.