REST here, my soul, a little space,
And from thy burdens gain relief;
Here gaze upon His sinless face,
Bedewed with sweat, and blood, and grief:
From earthly thought and toil retire,
And hear the Man of sorrows speak:
“Willing indeed the spirit is,
But verily the flesh is weak.”
Remember, Lord, that grievous load,
Which was too great for Thee to bear:
And think on me, my gracious God,
When I am burdened sore with care.
Thus keep my failing memory fresh,
While nature’s weakness would repine;
The thorn within my quivering flesh
Will help me to remember Thine.
‘Tis hard to understand that word,
When pressed beneath a load of pain
“Thy burden cast upon the Lord,
And He will surely thee sustain.”
Yet, though I murmur and rebel,
And thus misread the gentlest stroke,
The spirit understands it well,
And bows its shoulder to the yoke.
Lord, never let my heart forget
That midnight in Gethsemane,
When all my guilt, and grief, and debt,
Were by Thy Father laid on Thee.
Help me to watch through life’s short hour,
And strength against temptation seek;
My spirit clothe with heavenly power,
For Thou dost know the flesh is weak.
WILLIAM WILEMAN.