She is wayworn, she is weary;
She hath journeyed long and far,
In the dawning, and at noonday,
And beneath the evening star.
She hath carried heavy burdens;
She hath borne another’s load;
She hath shared her herbs and lentils
With those fainting on the road.
Take her scrip and loose her sandals;
Bring cool water for her feet;
Lave her tired limbs, and fold them
In fair linen, fresh and sweet.
Part the soft hair on her forehead;
Lightly touch the drifted snow,
That was like the golden sunshine
In rare summers long ago.
Whisper softly, for she sleepeth!
Lay her pale hands on her breast.
Do not wake her! Lift her gently,
Lest you break this perfect rest.
Bear her to the upper chamber;
Let the sound of weeping cease;
For it looketh toward the sunrise,
And the chamber’s name is—Peace.