Thou know'st, O Lord, my spirit's dearth:
Thou see'st the worth of what I bring:
The evil blossoms of the earth,
The light upon a perished thing.

Thou see'st my sick and weary mood:
The moon is dark, the dawn is slain.
Thy glory on my solitude
Shed Thou like fructifying rain.

Light Thou, O Lord, beneath my feet
The way my weary soul should pass,
For now the pain of all things sweet
Is piteous as the ice-bound grass.