Though this feeble body lie
Underneath the ground,
Wide awake, not sleeping, I
Shall in him be found.
But a morn yet fairer must
Quell this inner gloom—
Resurrection from the dust
Of a deeper tomb!
Father, wake thy little child;
Give me bread and wine
Till my spirit undefiled
Rise and live in thine.
WRITTEN FOR ONE IN SORE PAIN.
Shepherd, on before thy sheep,
Hear thy lamb that bleats behind!
Scarce the track I stumbling keep!
Through my thin fleece blows the wind!
Turn and see me, Son of Man!
Turn and lift thy Father's child;
Scarce I walk where once I ran:
Carry me—the wind is wild!
Thou art strong—thy strength wilt share;
My poor weight thou wilt not feel;
Weakness made thee strong to bear,
Suffering made thee strong to heal!
I were still a wandering sheep
But for thee, O Shepherd-man!
Following now, I faint, I weep,
Yet I follow as I can!
Shepherd, if I fall and lie
Moaning in the frosty wind,
Yet, I know, I shall not die—
Thou wilt miss me—and wilt find!