My Feet Are Wearied, And My Hands Are Tired, My Soul Oppressed -- And I Desire, What I Have Long Desired -- Rest -- Only Rest. 'Tis Hard To Toil -- When Toil Is Almost Vain, In Barren Ways; 'Tis Hard To Sow -- And Never Garner Grain, In Harvest Days. The Burden Of My Days Is Hard To Bear, But God Knows Best; And I Have Prayed -- But Vain Has Been My Prayer For Rest -- Sweet Rest. 'Tis Hard To Plant In Spring And Never Reap The Autumn Yield; 'Tis Hard To Till, And 'Tis Tilled To Weep O'Er Fruitless Field. And So I Cry A Weak And Human Cry, So Heart Oppressed; And So I Sigh A Weak And Human Sigh, For Rest -- For Rest. My Way Has Wound Across The Desert Years, And Cares Infest My Path, And Through The Flowing Of Hot Tears, I Pine -- For Rest. 'Twas Always So; When But A Child I Laid On Mother'S Breast My Wearied Little Head; E'En Then I Prayed As Now -- For Rest. And I Am Restless Still; 'Twill Soon Be O'Er; For Down The West Life'S Sun Is Setting, And I See The Shore Where I Shall Rest.