Brother, weary o’ the plod,
Art sorried sore o’ waiting?
Brother, bowed aneath the pack o’ Earth,
Art seeking o’ the path
That leadest thee unto new fields
O’ green, and breeze-kissed airs?
Art bowed and bent o’ weight o’ sorry?
Art weary, weary, sore?
Then come and hark unto this song o’ Him.
Hast thou atrodden ’pon the Earth,