University of Virginia Library

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 toll, when toll 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.