When my weary hands are folded
On my faintly throbbing breast,
And my soul has spread her pinions
For the city of the blest;
’Twill be sweet to hear the loved ones
Sing some dear, familiar song,
As I rise to join the chorus
Of the blood-washed, holy throng.
But a greater joy ’twill give me
If some toiling one can say,
I have helped to bear his burden
And have cheered him on the way;
Oh! I’ll praise His grace forever
Who hath died to ransom me,
And hath chosen me a sharer
In His blessèd work to be.
When the songs of earth are over,
And my last
goodbye is said,
When my lifeless form they follow
To the dwelling of the dead;
’Twill be sweet if friends remember
And shall mark the quiet spot,
Telling only that the sleeper
Hath not quickly been forgot.
But if one poor, weary wand’rer
Shall be guided home by me,
’Twere a grander, nobler monument,
Throughout all eternity;
And to Him shall be the glory,
Unto whom all praise is due,
For the love that hath redeemed us,
And hath made my heaven two.
When among the ransomed millions
By His grace redeemed I stand,
Then my song shall swell the chorus
Of the glad, triumphant band;
Oh, how sweet will be the resting
When my conflicts are all past,
Oh, the mighty
Of our victory at last!