Classic Poem

Two hands upon the breast,
—And labor's done;
Two pale feet crossed in rest,—
—The race is won;
Two eyes with coin-weights shut,
—And all tears cease,
Two lips where grief is mute,
—Anger at peace;—
So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot;
God in His kindness answereth not.

Two hands to work addressed
—Aye for His praise;
Two feet that never rest
—Walking His ways;
Two eyes that look above
—Through all their tears;
Two lips still breathing love,
—Not wrath, nor fears;—
So pray we afterwards, low on our knees;
Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these!