When our hearts have grown weary and grieve,

Or when we have wandered away, 

It is sweet in the gathering eve, 

To creep to His footstool and pray.

Ah! He knows of the burdens we bear, 

And the desolate ways we must tread;

He has gathered each tremulous prayer; 

He has marked if a spirit has bled.

And He loves us, and pities our pain;

To His patient, compassionate breast 

Never turneth the stricken in vain; 

"Oh, ye weary ones, come and find rest!"