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.