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One hour in peace.

We must toil, though the light of life is burning,

Oh, how dim!

We must toil on our sick bed, feebly turning

Our eyes to Him,

Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly saying,

With scarce moved breath

While the paler hands, uplifted, aid the praying—

"Lord, grant us Death!"

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"DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVI AD TE DOMINE."

BY our looks of mute despair,

By the sighs that rend the air,

From lips too faint to utter prayer,

Kyrie Eleison.

By the last groans of our dying,

Echoed by the cold wind's sighing

On the wayside as they're lying,

Kyrie Eleison.

By our fever-stricken bands

Lifting up their wasted hands

For bread throughout the far-off lands,

Kyrie Eleison

Miserable outcasts we,

Pariahs of humanity,

Shunned by all where'er we flee,

Kyrie Eleison.

For our dead no bell is ringing,

Round their forms no shroud is clinging,

Save the rank grass newly springing,

Kyrie Eleison.

Golden harvests we are reaping,

With golden grain our barns heaping,