Come to the Sun-set Tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman’s axe lies free,
And the reaper’s work is done.
The twilight-star to Heaven,
And the summer-dew to flowers,
And rest to us is given
By the cool soft evening hours.
Sweet is the hour of rest!
Pleasant the wind’s low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,
And the turf whereon we lie;
When the burden and the heat
Of labour’s task are o’er,
And kindly voices greet
The tired one at his door.
Come to the Sun-set Tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman’s axe lies free,
And the reaper’s work is done.
Yes; tuneful is the sound
That dwells in whispering boughs;
Welcome the freshness round,
And the gale that fans our brows.
But rest, more sweet and still
Than ever night-fall gave,
Our longing hearts shall fill,
In the world beyond the grave.
There shall no tempest blow,
No scorching noon-tide beat;
There shall be no more snow,
No weary wandering feet.
So we lift our trusting eyes,
From the hills our fathers trode,
To the quiet of the skies,
To the Sabbath of our God.
Come to the Sun-set Tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman’s axe lies free,
And the reaper’s work is done.