I am a weary, Mother God,
I pray thee take me to thy rest.
The call of Fame, the pride of place,
The sheen of pageants round about,
Are but the unsubstantial dream
Of earth's environments.
Earth has not offered much;
Some pain-wracked days by far too real,
And some, full measured with a joy,
(Not built upon the Rock of Christ)
Which drifted out like gossamer
Before a summer wind.
But now, since Christ, new-born, hath come,
I measure life anew. My heart
Hath heard thy call. Thy rest
Hath entered in, and heaven dwells
E'en here on earth. Thy gentle voice,
More constant than the ancient sun,
Is heard above earth's wearying din,
And all is stilled.
