PLEASANT the ways whereon our feet were led, <br />Sweet the young hills, the valleys of content, <br />But now the hours of dew and dream have fled. <br />Lord, we are spent. <br /> <br />We did not heed Thy warning in the skies, <br />We have not heard Thy voice nor known Thy fold; <br />But now the world is darkening to our eyes. <br />Lord, we grow old. <br /> <br />Now the sweet stream turns bitter with our tears, <br />Now dies the star we followed in the west, <br />Now are we sad and ill at ease with years. <br />Lord, we would rest. <br /> <br />Lo, our proud lamps are emptied of their light, <br />Weary our hands to toil, our feet to roam; <br />Our day is past and swiftly falls Thy night. <br />Lord, lead us home.<br /><br />Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/deus-misereatur/
