Come Ye Apart and Rest

Above sin's clamor, stress of pain—all turmoil—To weary warriors sick at heart, oppressed,There breathes a still small voice; with sweet persuasion,To thee it calls, Come ye apart and rest.

Come ye apart from that that sense of selfhood,Which pictures thee as mortal, sojourning hereAmid a changing world of things uncertain,Its bright tomorrow tinged with doubt and fear.

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