Sit still, my child. 'Tis no great thing I ask,
No glorious deed, no mighty task;
But just to sit and patiently abide.
Wait in my presence, in my word confide,
"But oh! dear Lord, I long the sword to wield,
Forward to go, and in the battle field
To fight for thee, thine enemies o'erthrow,
And in thy strength to vanquish every foe.
"The harvest-fields spread out before me lie,
The reapers toward me look, and vainly cry—