TELL me about the Master.
I am weary and worn to-night;
The day lies behind me in shadow,
And only the evening is light—
Light with a radiant glory
That lingers about the west;
My poor heart is a-weary, a-weary,
And longs, like a child, for rest. Tell me about the Master,
Of the hills he in loneliness trod,
When the tears and the blood of his anguish
Dropped down on Judea’s sod;
For to me life’s numerous milestones
But a sorrowful journey mark;
Rough lies the hill country before me;
The mountains behind me are dark. Tell me about the Master,
Of the wrongs he freely forgave,
Of his love and tender compassion,
Of his love that is mighty to save;
For my heart is a-weary, a-weary
Of the woes and temptations of life,
Of the error that stalks in the noonday,
Of falsehood, and malice, and strife. Yet I know that whatever of sorrow
Or pain or temptation befell,
The infinite Master has suffered,
And knoweth and pitieth all.
So tell me the sweet old story,
That falls on each wound like a balm,
And my heart that was bruised and broken,
Shall grow patient, and strong, and calm.