As Jesus rested at the well,
some minutes or an hour,
the Saviour's purpose, who could tell?
Who then could guess his weariness?
Who now can grasp his power?
As Jesus rested with his friends
to hear what they had done,
who saw, who sees what God intends?
Who understands that from his hands
there's bread for everyone?
As Jesus rested in the tomb
that doubtful Sabbath Day,
Who wondered if his hour had come?
Who now can know how fact, how slow
our minutes tick away?
Lord Jesus, resting now on high,
in kingly robes arrayed,
who can forget you had to die?
Your work complete, your hands and feet
still show the price you paid.