A house not made with hands;

Where Jesus will his saints receive,

Who walk in his commands.

Be it mine to walk the narrow way,

Which my Redeemer trod,

And in the City have a place

Close by the throne of God.

There friends will meet to part no more,

Whose sins are here forgiven.

I would not rest until I know,

I have a home in Heaven.

No Resting Here.

No resting place! oh! sad, oppressive thought!

The overburdened heart opprest with grief,

Must bear its weight o’er sad reflection’s tide,

Fearing at last the fate of unbelief.

Is there one here, without one beam of hope?

Oppressed, desponding, bordering on despair?

Still sinking ’neath gloom’s dark and heavy cloud,

Not thinking e’er one cheering boon to share?

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