So tired am I, so weary of to-day,

So unrefreshed from foregone weariness,

So overburdened by foreseen distress,

So lagging and so stumbling on my way,

I scarce can rouse myself to watch or pray,

To hope, or aim, or toil for more or less,—

Ah, always less and less, even while I press

Forward and toil and aim as best I may.

Half-starved of soul and heartsick utterly,

Yet lift I up my heart and soul and eyes

(Which fail in looking upward) toward the prize:

Me, Lord, Thou seest though I see not Thee;

Me now, as once the Thief in Paradise,

Even me, O Lord my Lord, remember me.