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"MU."
THOU HAST HIS CARE.
Look up, sad soul! Forget not how
The Master toil'd
When on this earth. His sacred brow
Was often soil'd
With labour's sweat. Then, labour thou,
Tho' joy-despoiled.
Nor think to find thy rest on earth!
Here is no sound
Of peace—but discord from our birth,
Until we've found
The grave. Life's, at its utmost worth,
A weary round
Of toil and care! Doth trial sore,
Or cruel scorn
O'erwhelm thee? Remember Him who wore
A crown of thorn!
How patiently His cross He bore
On shoulders worn.
And aching 'neath the load which press'd
Most heavily!
Ah, soul! by every little cross distress'd,
Ah! think how He
Was mock'd, and scorn'd, and sore oppress'd
With grief—for thee!
