I am so wearied by the ancient weight
Of my own sins, by my bad habits’ load,
I go in fear that I’ll fail on the road
And fall into the hands of one I hate.
A great friend came to free me from this strain
With courtesy so high words fail its height;
And then He flew so far beyond my sight
I struggle to see Him again in vain.
But His voice still resounds down here today:
“All ye that labor now, behold the way;
Come unto me, if clear the close pass lies.”
What destiny, what grace is it, what love
Will give me wings and make me like the dove,
That I may rest and from the earth arise?
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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