The Hands that Hang Down

O lord, I am so tired!
My heart is sick and sore.
I work, and work, and do no good—
And I can try no more!

I lay my treasures up,
And think they're worth such care;
And the next time I go to look,
There's only rubbish there!

I tug hard at the door
Of knowledge—strain and pant;
But, Lord, the more I seem to learn,
The more I'm ignorant!

Sometimes I am so vain
I set myself to teach;
But e'en the first beginnings lie
Utterly out of reach!

I am no use—no use!
I thought I might have been;
But now I know how small I am,
How poor, how false, how mean!

Sunk in the dust and mire
While aiming at the skies,
Only a thing to laugh at, Lord,
To pity and despise!