Catherine Winkworth · 186 of 207

The Tired Child

Ah God! The world hath nought to please; One loses strength and light and peace In needful toil of sense and brain: Would I might here with Thee remain!

I am sated with these things of nought, Wearied with hearing, sight, and thought; O Mother-Heart, to Thee I turn, Comfort Thy child, for Thee I yearn:

Thy love, most gentle-innocent! Would that each hour might there be spent, That I absorbed in Thee might live, And child-like to my Father cleave.

Like a parched field my soul doth lie Pining beneath a sultry sky; O Heavenly Dew, O gentle Rain, Descend and bid it bloom again.

Ach, Gott, es taugt doch draussen nicht