Thursday, May 12, 2016
My rest is in heaven, my rest is not here;
Then why should I murmur when trials are near?
Be hushed, my complainings, the worst that can come
But shortens my journey and hastens me home.
It is not for me to be seeking my bliss,
And building my hopes in a region like this;
I look for a city which hands have not piled;
I pant for a country by sin undefiled.
The thorn and the thistle around me may grow,
I would not lie down upon roses below;
I ask not my portion, I seek not a rest,
Till I find them for ever on Jesus His breast.
Afflictions may damp me, they cannot destroy;
One glimpse of His love turns them all into joy;
And the bitterest tears, if He smile but on them,
Like dew in the sunshine, grow diamond and gem.
Let trial and danger my progress oppose,
They only make heaven more sweet at the close;
Come joy or come sorrow, whate'er may befall,
A home with my God will make up for it all.
A scrip on my back and a staff in my hand,
I march on in haste through an enemy's land;
The road may be rough, but it cannot be long,
And I smooth it with hope and I cheer it with song.
H. F. Lyte