Light with a radiant glory
That lingers about the west;
My poor heart is aweary, aweary,
And longs, like a child, for rest.
Tell me about the Master!
Of the hills he in loneliness trod,
When the tears and the blood of his anguish
Dropped down on Judea's sod.
For to me life's numerous milestones
But a sorrowful journey mark;