Come to the sunset tree,
The day is past and gone;
The woodman's ax 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 soft evening hours.
Sweet is the hour of rest,
Pleasant the woods' low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,
And the turf whereon we lie,
When the burden and the heat
Of the laborer's task is o'er,
And kindly voices greet
The tired one at the door.
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 the nightfall gave,
Our yearning hearts shall fill,
In the world beyond the grave.
There, shall no tempests blow,
Nor scorching noontide heat;
There, shall be no more snow,
No weary, wandering feet;
So we lift our trusting eyes
From the hills our fathers trod,
To the quiet of the skies,
To the Sabbath of our God.
