p. 150 | NOT THY REST

Publishing Committee · Battle Creek, Mich. · Sep 11, 1856

NOT THY REST.

Arise ye and flee, for this is not thy rest.—Micah ii, 10.

No, "not thy rest," poor pilgrim, worn and weary, Foot-sore and fainting on life's darksome waste; Thy sky o'ercast, the storm-clouds howling dreary, And threat'ning death in every angry blast.

No, "Not thy rest," for there's no safety near thee, And moth and rust corrupts thy choicest things; The midnight thief breaks thro', and scorns to fear thee, And all thy boasted treasures make them wings.

No, "not thy rest," thy direst foe within thee Betrays thy soul in every passing hour; Passions and lusts and fair temptations win thee, And make thee feel the arch-deceiver's power.

Then "rise and flee;" there is a rest above thee, No moth, nor rust, nor thief can enter there, Nor hard oppresser, dark assassin, move thee; Not even death shall cloud thy brow with care.

Yes, there's a rest, poor weary, wandering stranger, Arise and flee, and let thy soul be glad; In that blest home they never reck of danger, No foot is weary, and no heart is sad.

Then "rise and flee," the Saviour comes to meet thee; And all thy loved companions gone before, With outstretched wings and holy joy shall greet thee, And enter with thee, Canaan's peaceful shore.

There evermore the ransomed millions wander, And bathe for ever in that boundless flood; There tune their harps, and deathless praises render To Him who bought them with his precious blood.

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