Where joys and sorrows keep perpetual strife;
But if I must a toil-worn pilgrim be,
O, Savior! give me tears—then rest with thee!
For if life’s path were only strew’d with flowers,
I should forget my own immortal powers,
And stoop to gather roses all my way,
And lose in trifling pleasures life’s short day.
The thorns that pierce my weary wand’ring feet,
But spur me onward to thy blissful seat,
And bring me sooner to my blood-bought home,