Take unto Thyself, O Father!
This folded day of thine,
This weary day of mine.
Its ragged corners cut me yet.
O, still the jar and fret!
Father! do not forget
That I am tired
With this day of thine.

Breathe thy pure breath, watching Father!
On this marred day of thine,
This erring day of mine.
Wash it white of stain and spot,
O, cleanse its every blot!
Reproachful Eyes! remember not
That I have grieved thee
On this day of thine!

More verses by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward