My rest is in heaven—my home is not here;

Then why sould I murmur when trials appear?

Be hushed, my sad spirit, the worst that may come

But shortens thy journey and hastens thee home.

2 A pilgrim and stranger, I seek not my bliss,

Nor lay up my treasures in regions like this;

I look for a city which hands have not piled;

I pant for a country by sin undefiled.

3 Afflictions may try me, but can not destroy;

One vision of home turns them all into joy;

And the bitterest tear that flows from my eyes,

But sweetens my hope of that home in the skies.

4 Though foes and temptations my progress oppose,

They only make heaven more sweet at the close;

Come joy or come sorrow—the worst may befall,

One moment in heaven will make up for all.

5 The thorn and the thistle around me may grow,

I would not repose upon roses below;

I ask not my portion, I seek not my rest,

Till, seated with Jesus, I lean on his breast.

6 A scrip for the way and a staff in my hand,

I march on in haste through the enemy’s land:

The road may be rough, but it can not be long:

So I’ll smooth it with hope, and I’ll cheer it with song.