My rest is in heaven, my rest is not here,
Then why should I murmur when trials are near?
Be hushed my sad spirit, the worst that can come
But shortens the journey and hastens me home.
It is not for me to be seeking my bliss,
And building my hopes in a region like this;
I look for a city which hands have not piled;
I pant for a country by sin undefiled.
Let trial and danger my progress oppose,
They only make heaven more sweet at the close;
Come joy or come sorrow, whate’er may befall,
A home with my God will make up for it all.
With Christ in my heart, and His Word in my hand,
I travel in haste through an enemy’s land;
The road may be rough, but it cannot be long,
So I journey on singing the conqueror’s song.
by Henry F. Lyte