Page:Poems Kimball.djvu/77

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HIS REST.
59
But when the heart grows sick with pain,
    The burden sore,
And all our labor seems in vain,
    And o'er and o'er
    The sin we fight
    Returns with might;

When loss and sickness touch us close,
    And death draws near
To take not us, perhaps, but those
    Than self more dear;
    When some swift blow
    Doth lay us low;

Or long discouragement or strife
    Doth wear away
The ardor and the joy of life,
    Do what we may;
    And many woes
    Our doubts disclose—

Far more than glories unconceived
    Beyond the grave,
His rest in whom we have believed
    Is what we crave:
    By night and day
    For rest we pray.