Page:A Treasury of South African Poetry.djvu/294

268  up, sad soul! Forget not how
 * The Master toil'd

When on this earth. His sacred brow
 * Was often soil'd

With labour's sweat. Then, labour thou,
 * Tho' joy-despoiled.

Nor think to find thy rest on earth!
 * Here is no sound

Of peace—but discord from our birth,
 * Until we've found

The grave. Life's, at its utmost worth,
 * A weary round

Of toil and care! Doth trial sore,
 * Or cruel scorn

O'erwhelm thee? Remember Him who wore
 * A crown of thorn!

How patiently His cross He bore
 * On shoulders worn.

And aching 'neath the load which press'd
 * Most heavily!

Ah, soul! by every little cross distress'd,
 * Ah! think how He

Was mock'd, and scorn'd, and sore oppress'd
 * With grief—for thee!