My Lord, my Love, was cru­ci­fied,
He all the pains did bear;
But in the sweet­ness of His rest
He makes His ser­vants share.

How sweet­ly rest Thy saints above
Which in Thy bo­som lie;
The Church be­low doth rest in hope
Of that fe­li­ci­ty.

Thou, Lord, who dai­ly feed’st Thy sheep,
Mak’st them a week­ly feast;
Thy flocks meet in their se­ver­al folds
Upon this day of rest.

Welcome and dear un­to my soul
Are these sweet feasts of love;
But what a Sab­bath shall I keep
When I shall rest above!

I bless Thy wise and won­drous love,
Which binds us to be free;
Which makes us leave our earth­ly snares,
That we may come to Thee.

I come, I wait, I hear, I pray,
Thy foot­steps, Lord, I trace;
I sing to think this is the way
Unto my Sav­ior’s face.