Poems (Sharpless)/Song of the Aged
SONG OF THE AGED
Toiling ever, wearily on,
Longing, still longing, for set of sun;—
Our hands hang heavy, our feet are slow,
Treading the path we have yet to go.
Longing, still longing, for set of sun;—
Our hands hang heavy, our feet are slow,
Treading the path we have yet to go.
We've wandered far o'er this world of ours,
Have sown our seed mid its weeds and flowers;—
In the freshness of morning, at noon, at night,
We have scattered our seed to the left and right,—
Have sown our seed mid its weeds and flowers;—
In the freshness of morning, at noon, at night,
We have scattered our seed to the left and right,—
Seeds of discord, and seeds of love,
Yet cannot tell what the end will prove;—
Seeds of plants from the heaven of God,
Freely we've sown in our long road.
Yet cannot tell what the end will prove;—
Seeds of plants from the heaven of God,
Freely we've sown in our long road.
Yes, wearily, wearily, toil we on;
Our labor and toiling are nearly done;
Our souls are weary as souls can be,
And the harvest we leave, oh Great Father, with Thee.
Our labor and toiling are nearly done;
Our souls are weary as souls can be,
And the harvest we leave, oh Great Father, with Thee.