O Weary Saint

O weary saint cast down,
Who mourns in barren field,
Whose heart and flesh now fail
And naught but weeping yield–
When fears increase as life departs,
Where is the balm for broken hearts?

The weary Savior died
And in the grave was sown
To bear the wrath of God
For sin though not His own
Then He arose from where He lay,
The firstfruits of the harvest day.

O weary saint look up
For from the barren field
Will rise, in Christ, His own
With heart and flesh then healed.
Our hope is this, that death is gain,
Our tears and sighs will not remain.

John Ireland (1918) Reformed Praise


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