My feet are wearied and my hands are tired,
My soul oppressed—
And I desire, what I have long desired—
Rest—only rest.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
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.
In his last days his mind was filled with reminiscences of the war and he would arouse the monastery and tell the priests and brothers, "Go out into the city and tell the people that trouble is at hand. War is coming with pestilence and famine and they must prepare to meet the invader."