The Hands That Hang Down

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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!

© Ada Cambridge