Are ten thousand fears desiring
    To engulf their helpless prey? 
  One faint hope, his grace inspiring,
    Is a mightier thing than they.

  Has the foe his dark dominion,
    As upon thy Saviour, tried?—­
  As to Him with hastening pinion,
    Lo! the angels at thy side.

  Is thy spirit all unfeeling,
    Save to sin that grieves thee there? 
  Thee He’ll make, his face revealing,
    Joyful in His house of prayer!

  Hast thou seen thy building falter
    Can thy God thy griefs despise? 
  ’Mid the ruins dark, an altar
    Fashion’d by His hands, shall rise.

  Thee, to some lone mountain sending,
    Only with the wood supplied;
  He, thy God, thy worship tending,
    Will Himself a lamb provide.

  Has He made it vain thy toiling
    Fine-spun raiment to prepare? 
  ’Twas to give—­thy labors spoiling—­
    Better robes than monarchs wear.

  From thy barn and storehouse treasure
    Did He take thy hoarded pelf? 
  Yes:  to feed thee was His pleasure,
    Like the winged fowls—­Himself.

* * * * *

  “WHAT PROFIT HATH A MAN OF ALL HIS LABOR
  THAT HE TAKETH UNDER THE SUN?”

  Must we forever train the vineyard sproutings,
    And plough in hope of harvests yet to come,
  Nor ever join the gladsome vintage shoutings,
    And sing the happy song of harvest-home?

  Must we forever the rough stones be heaping,
    And building temple walls for evermore? 
  Comes there no blessed day for Sabbath-keeping,
    No time within the temple to adore?

  In faith’s long contest have life’s quenchless fountains
    Bade calm defiance to the hostile sword? 
  But when, all beautiful upon the mountains,
    Shall come the herald of our peace restored?

  Must we forever urge the brain with learning,
    And add to moral, intellectual woes? 
  Nor hold in peace the spoils we have been earning,
    And find in wisdom’s self the mind’s repose?

  Long have we watch’d, and risen late and early,
    Rising to toil, and watching but to weep;
  When will the blessing come like dewdrops pearly,
    “On heaven’s beloved ones even while they sleep?”

  Since life began, our life has been beginning,
    That ever-nascent future’s treacherous vow;
  When shall we find, the weary contest winning
    A present treasure, an enduring now?

  Ten thousand nameless earthly aims pursuing,
    Hope we in vain the recompense to see,
  And must our total life expire in doing,
    And never find us leisure time to be?

  Has not our life a germ of real perfection,
    As holds the tiny seed the forest’s pride? 
  And shall its ask’d and promised resurrection
    In dreams of disappointed hope subside?