Trouble’s storm has got to rest,
To his place the wayworn stranger.
Want is done, and grief and pain,
Done is all thy bitter weeping:
Thou art safe from wind and rain
In the Mother’s bosom sleeping.
Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,
Nor the furious winter’s rages:
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone and ta’en thy wages.