Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle, 
Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and founded strong. 
Think rather,-- call to thought, if now you grieve a little, 
The days when we had rest, O soul, for they were long. 

Men loved unkindness then, but lightless in the quarry 
I slept and saw not; tears fell down, I did not mourn; 
Sweat ran and blood sprang out and I was never sorry: 
Then it was well with me, in days ere I was born. 

Now, and I muse for why and never find the reason, 
I pace the earth, and drink the air, and feel the sun. 
Be still, be still, my soul; it is but for a season: 
Let us endure an hour and see injustice done. 

Ay, look: high heaven and earth ail from the prime foundation; 
All thoughts to rive the heart are here, and all are vain: 
Horror and scorn and hate and fear and indignation-- 
Oh why did I awake? when shall I sleep again?