What weight is this which presses on my soul?

Powerless to rise, I sink amidst the dust:

The days in solemn cycle o'er me roll,

While, praying, I can only wait and trust.

—Trust the dear Hand that all my life has led

Through pastures green, by waters pure and still:

If now He leads me through dark ways and dread,

Shall I dare murmur, whatsoe'er His will?