THE SAINT'S REST.
We've no abiding city here:
This may distress the worldling's mind,
But should not cost the saint a tear,
Who hopes a better rest to find.
We've no abiding city here;
We seek a city out of sight,
Zion its name: the Lord is there:
It shines with everlasting light.
Hush, my soul, nor dare repine;
The time my God appoints is best;
While here to do his will be mine,
And his to fix my time of rest.
