There is a calm for those who weep,

A rest for weary pilgrims found;

They softly lie, and sweetly sleep,

Low in the ground.

2 The storm that racks the wintery sky

No more disturbs their deep repose,

Than summer evening’s latest sigh,

That shuts the rose.

3 Thou traveler in this vale of tears,

To realms of everlasting light,

Through time’s dark wilderness of years,

Pursue thy flight.

4 Whate’er thy lot—whate’er thou be—

Confess thy folly—kiss the rod;

And in thy chastening sorrows see

The hand of God.

5 Though long of winds and waves the sport,

Condemned in wretchedness to roam,

Thou soon shalt reach a sheltering port,

A quiet home.