We are tired and sore, for the labour we bore.
For the Saviour who swore on sin's death throes.
We are troubled and spent, in the pitch of this tent.
For the Saviour who tabernacled this low.
As the feet of the sinner, saved unto soul winner.
As the hands working hammer and nails.
For the penance of effort and trails of good pleasure.
For the unworthy prayers made of wails.
The work is not done, in our wants and our sum.
It is finished in His selfless gift.
We are burdened with yokes, too light for our cost.
wrought with tools to precious to lift.
We are tired and sore, for this labour we swore.
We'd perform as our bodies decay.
We are troubled and spent, in the pitch of this tent.
For the glory He brings with His day.