Page:Poems Kimball.djvu/77

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.