Now, poor tired hands, be still,
Toil-stained through Death’s white hue;
No need now for your skill,
No further task to do.
Folded across the breast,
Dead hands no work shall soil—
’Tis living hands that toil.
Now, weary eyes, go sleep;
You shall see no more wrong,
Nor anxious watches keep
For Love that tarries long;
Shall shed no more sad tears
Through all the years.
Fold down your lids and sleep—
’Tis living eyes that weep.
Poor beating heart, now rest;
Sorrow or pain no more
Shall make thee sore distrest;
Thy restless care is o’er.
Go still sweet session keep
Of blissful sleep,
And no more throb and ache—
’Tis living hearts that break.
