Rest upon thy heart.
103
Long and weary seems the journey,
Bitter bread of muddy grain,
Wells so scarce, so low, and turbid—
Rest upon thy heart again.
Bitter bread of muddy grain,
Wells so scarce, so low, and turbid—
Rest upon thy heart again.
Beats the tempest in its fury
On a weak defenceless head,
Rags to scarcely shield the bosom,
Feet to bleed, too cold and dead.
On a weak defenceless head,
Rags to scarcely shield the bosom,
Feet to bleed, too cold and dead.
Dead the flowers, spent their odours,
Hush'd the voice of nature's love,
Lonely, lonely, on to wander—
Is the "Father still above?"
Hush'd the voice of nature's love,
Lonely, lonely, on to wander—
Is the "Father still above?"
Hush! the Saviour trode the wine-press,
In the desert bore the heat,
Brought e'en fragrance from the nettles,
Smoothed the sharp stones for my feet.
In the desert bore the heat,
Brought e'en fragrance from the nettles,
Smoothed the sharp stones for my feet.
In the palm-tree's whispering shelter,
Close beside the cooling stream,
Laid my head upon her bosom,
Till the past seemed but a dream!
Close beside the cooling stream,
Laid my head upon her bosom,
Till the past seemed but a dream!
