No gathering clouds I see,
I hear no rising blast,
I fold my tired hands restfully,
As though all storms were past.
Yet, whether so or not,
O Lord, thou knowest best!
This night, let every anxious thought
And trembling fear have rest
This night I will lie down
In peace beneath thine eye,
Nor heed what ills unseen may frown,
Since thou art ever nigh.
I will lie down and sleep,
From every terror free;
Nor wake to tremble or to weep,
Secure, O Lord, with thee!
DEATH
'Tis but to fold the arms in peace,
To close the tear-dimmed, aching eye,
From sin and suffering to cease,
And wake to sinless life on high.
'Tis but to leave the dusty way
Our pilgrim feet so long have pressed,
And passon angel-wings away,
Forever with the Lord to rest.
'Tis but with noiseless step to glide
Behind the curtain's mystic screen
That from our mortal gaze doth hide
The glories of the world unseen.
Tis but to sleep a passing hour,
Serene as cradled infants sleep;
Then wake in glory and in power,
An endless Sabbath day to keep.
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