This gloomy northern day, Or this yet gloomier night, Has moved a something high In my cold heart; and I, That do not often pray, Would pray tonight.
And first on Thee I call For bread, O God of might! Enough of bread for all— That through the famished town Cold hunger may lie down With none tonight.
I pray for hope no less, Strong-sinewed hope, O Lord, That to the struggling young May preach with brazen tongue Stout Labour, high success, And bright reward.
And last, O Lord, I pray For hearts resigned and bold To trudge the dusty way— Hearts stored with song and joke And warmer than a cloak Against the cold.
If nothing else he had, He who has this, has all. This comforts under pain; This, through the stinging rain, Keeps ragamuffin glad Behind the wall.
This makes the sanded inn A palace for a Prince, And this, when griefs begin And cruel fate annoys, Can bring to mind the joys Of ages since.