  Night drops her mantle from the skies, And from her home of peace above, She watches with her starry eyes, As with a tender mother’s love. The sounds of toil and strife are stilled, And in the silence calm and deep, The word of promise is fulfilled— “He giveth his belovÉd sleep.” The weary soul oppressed with care, The young, the old, the strong, the weak, The rich, the poor, the brave, the fair, Alike the common blessing seek. The child sleeps on its mother’s breast, The broken-hearted cease to weep, For answering to the prayer for rest, “He giveth his belovÉd sleep. Beneath the churchyard’s sod there lies Full many a weary form at rest, With death’s calm slumber in the eyes, And pale hands folded on the breast. O ye who bend above the sod, And tears of silent anguish weep, Lean with a firmer faith on God— “He giveth his belovÉd sleep,”— Sleep for the eye whose light has fled, Sleep for the weary heart and hand; But not the sleep of those who tread The green hills of “the better land.” No restless nights of pain are theirs, No weary watch for morn they keep, But through release from mortal cares, “He giveth his belovÉd sleep.” Theirs is that sweet, exceeding peace, Where love makes every duty blest, Where anxious cares and longings cease, And labor in itself is rest. O, we will trust the power above The treasures of our hearts to keep, Safe folded in his arms of love, “He giveth our belovÉd sleep.” |
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