Alas, what mean those fears,
That dry and wi­thered look;
That head be­sprink­led with gray hairs,
And hands with pal­sy shook?

Thy heart once all a flame,
Fed well on Je­sus’ store,
But starv­èd now, and sick, and lame,
Thou seem­est sad­ly poor.

Be sure thou hast been slack,
And set­tling on thy lees,
The Bi­ble cast be­hind thy back,
And sel­dom on thy knees.

To Je­sus thou art grown
A stran­ger once again;
No won­der He has made thee moan,
And look like any Cain.

Come, lift the fee­ble hand,
And shake the drow­sy mind,
Gird up thy loins for Ca­naan’s land,
And fast thy san­dals bind.

To Je­sus yet re­turn,
And Je­sus will re­ceive;
Awhile He makes the ram­bler mourn,
And then His peace will give.