My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired, My soul oppressed -And I desire, what I have long desired Rest only rest.
'Tis hard to toil1 when toil is almost vain, In barren ways； 'Tis hard to sow and never garner2 grain, In harvest days.
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.
'Tis hard to plant in Spring and never reap The Autumn yield； 'Tis hard to till, and 'tis tilled to weep O'er fruitless field.
And so I cry a weak and human cry, So heart oppressed； And so I sigh a weak and human sigh, For rest for rest.
My way has wound across the desert years, And cares infest3 My path, and through the flowing of hot tears, I pine for rest.
'Twas always so； when but a child I laid On mother's breast My wearied little head； e'en then I prayed As now for rest.
And I am restless still； 'twill soon be o'er； For down the West Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore Where I shall rest.