'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.
Follow Me
The Master's voice was sweet:
"I gave My life for thee;
Bear thou this cross thro' pain and loss,
Arise and follow Me."
I clasped it in my hand —
O Thou! who diedst for me,
The day is bright, my step is light,
'Tis sweet to follow Thee!
Through the long Summer days
I followed lovingly;
'Twas bliss to hear His voice so near,
His glorious face to see.
Down where the lilies pale
Fringed the bright river's brim,
In pastures green His steps were seen —
'Twas sweet to follow Him!
Oh, sweet to follow Him!
Lord, let me here abide.
The flowers were fair; I lingered there;
I laid His cross aside —
I saw His face no more
By the bright river's brim;
Before me lay the desert way —
'Twas hard to follow Him!
Yes! hard to follow Him
Into that dreary land!
I was alone; His cross had grown
Too heavy for my hand.
I heard His voice afar
Sound thro' the night air chill;
My weary feet refused to meet
His coming o'er the hill.