1 Alas, what mean those fears,
That dry and withered look;
That head besprinkled with gray hairs,
And hands with palsy shook?

2 Thy heart once all a flame,
Fed well on Jesus’ store,
But starved now, and sick, and lame,
Thou seemest sadly poor.

3 Be sure thou hast been slack,
And settling on thy lees,
The Bible cast behind thy back,
And seldom on thy knees.

4 To Jesus thou art grown
A stranger once again;
No wonder He has made thee moan,
And look like any Cain.

5 Come, lift the feeble hand,
And shake the drowsy mind,
Gird up thy loins for Canaan’s land,
And fast thy sandals bind.

6 To Jesus yet return,
And Jesus will receive;
Awhile He makes the rambler mourn,
And then His peace will give.