With Jesus, my Savior, and sleep on his breast.
I'm weary and thirsty, my spirit has flown
Almost to that river which bursts from the throne;—
I'd range its fair borders, and plunge in its flood,
And join with the angels in praising my God.
I'd rest in the shade of that tree, growing near,
Which yields its rich fruit every month in the year;
Its leaves are so healing, no sickness comes there,
To mar the new song as it floats through the air.
I think of the rest in those regions above,—