O Lord, when will You save my tired soul?
I've given all, but still they ask for more
Of muscles worn, my heart the most
Cannot, I think, endure another day
"Withhold the straw, increase the bricks!"
They say it with a smile
I'm just another pawn to sacrifice
My moping resignation turns
To anger, burning hot
If hands that feed me beat me, may I bite?
I've sympathy for Marxist fools
Who want the farmer dead
But I can find no hope among the pigs
My only hope is built on nothing less
Than You, O Lord, the Kingly Carpenter
Of insult and of cruel abuse
You know far more than such as I might grasp
Your words are truthful, comforting
Men lie and condescend
They only take, but You give all good things
Your loving, nail-torn hands provide
What I could never earn
You pour out blessings I do not deserve
You've called me "son" and "valuable"
You've promised me Your best
And I have seen You working in the dark
O Lord, when will You save my tired soul?
O God of Jacob, saved from Laban's fist
I trust in You in mind and will
But Father, help my heart to understand
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