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.