Words: (1811-1877).

Music: (1819-1890).

If you know when this song was writ­ten, or where to get a pic­ture of John Dad­mun

A fif­teen-year-old girl, of good fam­i­ly, was pre­sent at one of our meet­ings in the Free Col­lege Church in Glas­gow [Scot­land], in 1874, and at the close of the meet­ing re­mained among the in­quir­ers at the Col­lege Hall. Here she was spok­en to by a la­dy, and was led to Christ. Go­ing home, she told her mo­ther that she was now hap­py in the Lord. That ve­ry night she was tak­en sick, symp­toms of scar­let fe­ver ap­pear­ing. Pray­er was of­fered for her at the dai­ly pray­er-meet­ings. Per­haps most of her friends thought that the Lord would an­swer their sup­pli­ca­tions by re­stor­ing her to health; but he had a pur­pose of ano­ther kind. He meant to take her away to him­self, and to teach others by her re­mov­al. When it was ev­i­dent that she was dy­ing, she told her fa­ther that she was go­ing home to Christ. Near the end, he tried to sing with her “In the Christ­ian’s home in glory.” She caught up the words, “There my Sav­iour’s gone be­fore me, To ful­fill my soul’s re­quest” and faith­ful­ly re­peat­ed them. Her voice died away; those were the last words she was heard to ut­ter. Be­fore this she had sent a mes­sage of thanks to Mr. Moo­dy and my­self, and to the la­dy who had led her to Christ.

“Ah,” said Mr. Moo­dy, in tell­ing of this, “would not any one have re­gret­ted miss­ing the op­por­tun­i­ty of help­ing this soul, who has sent back her thanks from the very por­tals of glo­ry?”

In the Christian’s home in glory
There remains a land of rest;
There my Savior’s gone before me,
To fulfill my soul’s request.


There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for the weary,
There is rest for you.
On the other side of Jordan,
In the sweet fields of Eden,
Where the tree of life is blooming,
There is rest for you.

He is fitting up my mansion,
Which eternally shall stand,
For my stay shall not be transient,
In that holy, happy land.


Pain and sickness ne’er shall enter,
Grief nor woe my lot shall share;
But, in that celestial center,
I a crown of life shall wear.


Death itself shall then be vanquished,
And his sting shall be withdrawn;
Shout for gladness, O ye ransomed!
Hail with joy the rising morn.