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.