“I am tired and very weary”
Were the words he feebly
said,
As he lay all weak and helpless
As an infant on his bed,
While his lips were parched with fever
And his body racked with
pain,
Till the tide of life within him
Seemed too low to rise again.
“I am tired and very weary,”
Oh, the pathos of the plaint,
Coming from a strong man stricken,
Words cannot but fail to
paint!
Like a lion, weak and helpless,
Struggling from a serpent’s
sting,
Or a pigmy-vanquished giant,
Lies the one of whom I sing.
“I am tired and very weary”
And an earth-wide surge
of grief,
Like a plaintive fugue in minor,
Rises for the stricken Chief,
Till the millions hear the echo
Of the universal strain,
And pray Christ, the Healer’s pity,
That he walk in strength
again.
“I am tired and very weary”
Yes, poor heart! the plaint
is told
Everywhere by souls pain burdened,
Now as in the days of old;
By the child that makes its pillow
On a loving mother’s breast,
And the world and pain-worn mortals,
Longing but for peace and
rest.
“I am tired and very weary,”
And ere long the fevered
hours
Waft him to the scenes of childhood,
Where he romps mid weeds
and flowers; [263][264]
Where the days are ever brightest,
And the nights most full
of rest,
And the life of careless freedom
Seems the happiest and best.
Then amid the toil and struggle
For the bread most fairly
won,
Gaining health and strength in labor,
Ere more favored had begun,
Using hands and brains together,
In the race to reach his
aim,
Mounting up and onward ever,
To the pinnacle of fame.
Now amid his much prized home scenes
Walks he, as in days agone,
With his wife and little children,
Happy as the sun shone on;
Now amid the wars’ confusion,
Now with rulers of the land,
Now a great Republic’s chieftain,
Stricken by a curséd hand!
“I am tired and very weary”
Ah! the pity of it all.
Would to God a praying nation
Could his passing strength
recall;
Would its tears and supplications
Could relieve the ceaseless
pain.
Heal the wounded flesh, and raise him
From the fevered bed again.
