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.