The Pilgrim’s Song

My rest is in Heav­en; my rest is not here;

Then why should I mur­mur when tri­als are near?

Be hushed

my dark spir­it! the worst that can come

But short­ens my jour­ney

and hast­ens thee home.

It is not for me to be seek­ing my bliss

And build­ing my hopes in a re­gion like this:

I look for a ci­ty which hands have not piled;

I pant for a coun­try by sin un­de­filed.

The thorn and the this­tle around me may grow;

I would not lie down up­on ros­es be­low:

I ask not my por­tion

I seek not a rest

Till I find sweet quiet on Je­sus’ breast.

Afflictions may damp me

they can­not de­stroy:

One glimpse of His love turns them all in­to joy;

The bit­ter­est tears

if He smile but on them

Like dew in the sun­shine

grow di­amond and gem.

Let doubt then

and dan­ger

my pro­gress op­pose;

They on­ly make Heav­en more sweet at the close.

Come joy

or come sor­row

whate’er may be­fall

An hour with my God will make up for it all.

A scrip on my back

and a staff in my hand

I march on in haste through an en­emy’s land:

The road may be rough

but it can­not be long;

I’ll smooth it with hope

and I’ll cheer it with song.