THE HANDS THAT HANG DOWN.
O LORD, I am so tired,
My heart is sick and sore;
I work and work, and do no good;
I can't try any more. I lay my treasures up,
And think they're worth such care;
And the next time I go to look,
There's only rubbish there. I try hard at the door
Of knowledge—toil and pant;
But, Lord, the more I seem to learn
The more I'm ignorant. Sometimes I am so vain
I set myself to teach,
But even the first beginnings lie
Utterly out of reach. I am no use—no use!
I thought I might have been;
But now I know how small I am,
How poor, how weak, how mean. Sunk in the dust and mire,
While aiming at the skies;
Only a thing to laugh at, Lord,
To pity and despise. Cheer up, desponding soul!
Thy longing pleased I see;
’T is part of the great whole
Wherewith I longed for thee— Wherewith I longed for thee,
And left my Father's throne,
From sin to set thee free,
And claim thee for my own. Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.