When My Weary Hands Are Folded

When my wea­ry hands are fold­ed

On my faint­ly throb­bing breast

And my soul has spread her pin­ions

For the ci­ty of the blest;

’Twill be sweet to hear the loved ones

Sing some dear

fa­mil­iar song

As I rise to join the chor­us

Of the blood-washed

ho­ly throng.

But a great­er joy ’twill give me

If some toil­ing one can say

I have helped to bear his bur­den

And have cheered him on the way;

Oh! I’ll praise His grace for­ev­er

Who hath died to ran­som me

And hath chos­en me a shar­er

In His bless­èd work to be.

When the songs of earth are ov­er

And my last good­bye is said

When my life­less form they fol­low

To the dwell­ing of the dead;

’Twill be sweet if friends re­mem­ber

And shall mark the qui­et spot

Telling on­ly that the sleep­er

Hath not quick­ly been for­got.

But if one poor

wea­ry wan­d’rer

Shall be guid­ed home by me

’Twere a grand­er

nob­ler mo­nu­ment

Throughout all eter­ni­ty;

And to Him shall be the glo­ry

Unto whom all praise is due

For the love that hath re­deemed us

And hath made my heav­en two.

When among the ran­somed mill­ions

By His grace re­deemed I stand

Then my song shall swell the chor­us

Of the glad

tri­umph­ant band;

Oh

how sweet will be the rest­ing

When my con­flicts are all past

Oh

the migh­ty Al­le­lu­ia

Of our vic­to­ry at last!