Come to the sunset tree!
  The day is past and gone1;
The woodman's axe lies free,
  And the reaper's work is done.

The twilight star to heaven,
  And the summer dew to flowers,
And rest to us, is given
  By the cool soft evening hours.

Sweet is the hour of rest!
  Pleasant the wind's low sigh,
And the gleaming of the west,
  And the turf whereon we lie ;

When the burden and the heat
  Of labour's task are o'er,
And kindly voices greet
  The tired one at his door.

Come to the sunset tree!
  The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
  And the reaper's work is done.

Yes ; tuneful is the sound
  That dwells in whispering boughs ;
Welcome the freshness round!
  And the gale that fans our brows.

But rest more sweet and still
  Than ever nightfall gave,
Our yearning hearts shall fill
  In the world beyond the grave.

There shall no tempest blow,
  No scorching noontide heat; 
There shall be no more snow2,
  No weary wandering feet.

So we lift our trusting eyes
  From the hills our fathers trode,
To the quiet of the skies,
  To the Sabbath of our God.

Come to the sunset tree!
  The day is past and gone
The woodman's axe lies free,
  And the reaper's work is done.