Читать книгу Poems - Julia C. R. Dorr - Страница 32

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Into thy hands, O Father! Now at last, Weary with struggling and with long unrest, Vext by remembrances of conflicts past And by a host of present cares opprest,

I come to thee and cry, Thy will be done! Take thou the burden I have borne too long. Into thy hands, O mighty, loving One, My weakness gives its all, for thou art strong!

For life—for death. I cannot see the way; I blindly wander on to meet the night; The path grows steeper, and the dying day Soon with its shadows will shut out the light.

Hold thou my hand, O Father! I am tired As a young child that wearies of the road; And the far heights toward which I once aspired Have lost the glory with which erst they glowed.

Take thou my life, and mold it to thy will; Into thy hands commit I all my way; Fain would I lift each cup that thou dost fill, Nor from its brim my pale lips ever stay.

Take thou my life. I lay it at thy feet; And in my death my sure support be thou; So shall I sink to slumber calm and sweet, And wake at morn before thy face to bow!