“Into Thy Hands,”

Into thy hands, O Father! Now at last,
Weary with struggling and with long unrest,
Vext by remembrances of conflicts past
And by a host of present cares opprest,

I come to thee and cry, Thy will be done!
Take thou the burden I have borne too long.
Into thy hands, O mighty, loving One,
My weakness gives its all, for thou art strong!

For life—for death. I cannot see the way;
I blindly wander on to meet the night;
The path grows steeper, and the dying day
Soon with its shadows will shut out the light.

Hold thou my hand, O Father! I am tired
As a young child that wearies of the road;
And the far heights toward which I once aspired
Have lost the glory with which erst they glowed.

Take thou my life, and mold it to thy will;
Into thy hands commit I all my way;
Fain would I lift each cup that thou dost fill,
Nor from its brim my pale lips ever stay.

Take thou my life. I lay it at thy feet;
And in my death my sure support be thou;
So shall I sink to slumber calm and sweet,
And wake at morn before thy face to bow!