“ My arm grows weak ; death comes apace,1
Death pale and grim ; and I no more2
Can guard my lamb as heretofore.3
O God ! into Thy hands I render4
My crook ; keep Thou my lambkin tender.5
When I in peace have laid me down,6
Keep Thou my lamb, and do not let7
A single thorn her bosom fret.8
Oh keep her fleece from thorn-hedge harsh,9
And all unstained in mere and marsh.10
Above all, too, before her feet11
Make Thou the best of pasture sweet,12
And let her sleep without a fear.”13