Scripture Verse

The Lord Himself shall descend from Heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first. 1 Thessalonians 4:16

Introduction

portrait
Horatius Bonar
(1808–1889)

Words: Ho­ra­ti­us Bo­nar, cir­ca 1855. These words have ap­peared in ov­er 80 hym­nals, oft­en as cen­tos be­gin­ning with the stan­zas Rest for the toil­ing hand or Soon shall the trump of God. Ju­lian, page 674, states the words ap­peared in Bo­nar’s 1857 Hymns of Faith and Hope, but they were in print as ear­ly as 1855 in a hym­nal pub­lished in Ro­ches­ter, New York.

Music: Festal Song Will­iam H. Wal­ter, in the Epis­co­pal Hym­nal with Tunes Old and New, by John I. Tuck­er, 1872 (🔊 pdf nwc).

Alternate Tune:

  • Selden, anon­y­mous, in Church Mu­sic (Ro­ches­ter, New York: E. Dar­row & Bro­ther, 1855), page 220 (🔊 pdf nwc)

If you know where to get a good pho­to of Wal­ter (head-and-shoul­ders, at least 200×300 pix­els), would you ?

Lyrics

Lie down, frail body, here,
Earth has no fairer bed,
No gentler pillow to afford,
Come, rest thy home-sick head.

Lie down, vile body! here,
This mould is smoothly strewn;
No couch of flowers more softly spread—
Come, make this grave thine own.

Lie down, with all thy aches,
There is no aching here;
How soon shall all thy life-long ills
For ever disappear.

Thro’ these well guarded gates
No foe can entrance gain,
No sickness wastes, nor once intrudes
The memory of pain.

The tossings of the night,
The frettings of the day,
All end; and like a cloud of dawn,
Melt from thy skies away.

Footsore and worn thou art,
Breathless with toil and fight;
How welcome the long sought rest
Of all this all tranquil night.

Brief night and quiet couch
In some star lighted room,
Watched but by one belovèd eye
Whose light dispels all gloom.

A sky without a cloud,
A sea without a wave—
These are but shadows of thy rest
In this thy peaceful grave.

Rest for the toiling hand,
Rest for the anxious brow,
Rest for the weary, way-worn feet,
Rest from all labor now.

Rest for the fevered brain,
Rest for the throbbing eye;
Through these parched lips of thine no more
Shall pass the moan or sigh.

Soon shall the trump of God
Give out the welcome sound,
That shakes death’s silent chamber walls,
And breaks the turf-sealed ground.

You dwellers in the dust,
Awake, come forth, and sing;
Sharp has your frost of winter been,
But bright shall be your spring.

’Twas sown in weakness here;
’Twill then be raised in power;
That which was sown an earthly seed
Shall rise a heav’nly flower.