Beset with cares, oppress'd with woe

Beset with cares, oppress'd with woe,
Where can the weeping mourner go?
Where find remission from the sin
That wounds, and wearies him within?
A hope to banish all his fears,
A hand to wipe away his tears,
Pardon — his spirit to release,
And whisper softly " Go in peace!"

Vain are the comforts earth supplies,
As soon as grasp'd each pleasure dies;
The joys least kindred to decay
Have made them wings, and fled away!
Hopes once the brightest have declined,
Friends once most stedfast proved unkind;
One only Voice to souls distress'd
Seems still to promise certain rest.

'Come, mourner,' — thus it seems to say, —
'Come forth from darkness into day;
'Tho' lone thine heart, and full thine eye,
'Tho' sad sin's smart and sorrow's sigh,
'Tho' far thy wand'ring feet have stray'd,
'Thy spirit deeply disobey'd, —
'Yet come! — if weary and oppress'd,
'Come to Me, I will give you rest!'

'Come near, nor dread repulse from Me,
i I wept that I might comfort thee;
'Touch'd with a feeling of thy woe,
'Since all except its sin I know,
'I listen to the feeblest voice,
'Bid the most sorrowful rejoice,
'Then come, thou weary and oppress'd,
i Come to Me, I will give you rest! y