Bowed with grief and anguish low,
Weary with the clouded way;
Soul of mine, to Christ I'll go,
All my grief before Him lay:
Tell Him, 'neath the willow shade,
Ah! too long my stay is made.
Is there joy by Babel's streams,—
Mute the harp on willow hung,
Ne'er a sunglint or a beam,
Heart, as well as harp unstrung?
Soul of mine, awake! arise!
Seek the sunland and the skies.
There the palms in triumph wave,
And the stream life giving flows;
Up, my soul, be strong, be brave,
After night the morning glows,
For the willow's weeping shade
Marks the place where vows are made.
Sprigs of willow, leaves of palm,
Days of grief, and hours of song;
Nights of storm and morning calm,
Come alternate all life long;
Soul of mine, the shade of woe
Leads to where the palm leaves grow.
Lead me, O Thou Christ of God,
Where the willows weeping sigh;
Safe the way that Thou hast trod,
E'en with dangers lurking nigh,—
Past the willows and the grave,
To the land where palm trees wave.
Willows by earth's waters weep,
Palm trees wave beneath its sun;
Christ, my wandering footsteps keep,
Till my pilgrimage is done,
Where no willow marks a grave,
And the palms triumphant wave.