'Tis but to fold the arms in peace,
To close the tear-dimmed, aching eye,
From sin and suffering to cease,
And wake to sinless life on high.
'Tis but to leave the dusty way
Our pilgrim feet so long have pressed,
And pass on angel-wings away,
Forever with the Lord to rest.
'Tis but with noiseless step to glide
Behind the curtain's mystic screen
That from our mortal gaze doth hide
The glories of the world unseen.
Tis but to sleep a passing hour,
Serene as cradled infants sleep;
Then wake in glory and in power,
An endless Sabbath day to keep.