human
Thou wilt tire in the dreary ways of sin; I left My home to bring thee in. In its golden street are no weary feet, Its rest is pleasant, its songs are sweet. And we shout back angrily hurrying on To a terrible home where rest is none:
gpt
We want not your city's golden street, Nor to hear its constant song!
human
My child, what more could thy God have done? Thy sin hid the light of heaven from Me, When alone in the darkness I died for thee. Thy sin of to-day in its shadow lay Between My face and One turned away.