Folded Hands. Sufferer ! on thy couch of pain, Hail the hour of ease again ; Long by mortal sickness tried, By thy sufferings purified, Heir of sorrow from thy birth, Of the pains and throes of earth, Fold thy hands ! Respite brief of ease and rest, Fold them o’er thine aching breast. Woman ! o’er whose sunken eyes, The last rushlight glimmer dies, Lay thine ill-paid toil away, Till the morrow’s hungry day ; Seek the respite and release, Heaven will give in dreams of peace. Fold thy hands ! Earth denies thee food, not rest, Fold them o’er thy patient breast ! Garment of a soul laid by, Silent lips and rayless eye, Now these mortal hands lay down, Spade, or distaff, cross, or crown ; Freed one ! fresh from care and strife, Finished is thy sum of life ; Fold thy hands ! Ere thou seek’st thy long, last rest, Fold them o’er thy pulseless breast,