Rest

My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired,

My soul oppressed —

And I desire, what I have long desired —

Rest — only rest.

‘ Tis hard to toil — when toil is almost vain,

In barren ways;

‘ Tis hard to sow — and never garner grain,

In harvest days.

The burden of my days is hard to bear,

But God knows best;

And I have prayed — but vain has been my prayer

For rest — sweet rest.

‘ Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reap

The Autumn yield;

‘ Tis hard to till, and‘ tis tilled to weep

O'er fruitless field.

And so I cry a weak and human cry,

So heart oppressed;

And so I sigh a weak and human sigh,

For rest — for rest.

My way has wound across the desert years,

And cares infest

My path, and through the flowing of hot tears,

I pine — for rest.

‘ Twas always so; when but a child I laid

On mother's breast

My wearied little head; e'en then I prayed

As now — for rest.

And I am restless still;‘ twill soon be o'er;

For down the West

Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore

Where I shall rest.