There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found;
They safely lie and sweetly sleep,
Low in the ground, low in the ground.
The storms that sweep the wintry sky
No more disturb their deep repose,
Than summer eveningís latest sigh
That shuts the rose, that shuts the rose.
Thy soul renewed by grace divine,
In Godís own image, freed from clay,
In Heavínís eternal sphere shall shine,
A star of day, a star of day.