My Lord, if I had chosen
And asked a cross of Thee,
I think unto its bearing
My heart would stronger be.
Who takes his cross and follows
With solemn will and choice,
He feels Thy hand uplifting,
He hears Thy calling voice.
But my reluctant spirit,
It faints at toil and pain,
And back to easy living
Turns ever and again.

I think of the Cyrenian
Who crossed the city gate,
When forth the stream was pouring
That bore Thy cruel fate.
From quiet country places
The startled man was caught
By that fierce human tumult
Where maddest passion wrought.
I ponder what within him
The thoughts that woke that day,
As his unchosen burden
He bore that unsought way.

For I, O Lord, Thou seest
A heavy cross I bear,
Yet in its choice or making
I had nor will, nor share.
The souls that lived before me
This load for me did make;
They left it me for birthright,
I could not choose but take.
This will toward good uncertain,
Yet vehement toward wrong;
These yearnings that are feeble,
These passions that are strong;

Low, stubborn facts that cramp me,
High visions that are vain;
The spirit that aspires,
The body that’s a chain—
This nature’s not my choosing,
This cross, I cannot see
How bearing it I ever
Can follow after Thee.

Yet tempted He as we are!
O Lord, was Thy cross mine?
Am I, like Simon, bearing
A burden that is Thine?
Thou must have looked on Simon—
Turn, Lord, and look on me
Till I shall see I follow
And bear thy cross with Thee.
Then, though I was compellèd,
I’ll claim as boon the woe
Through which my feet are learning
The path where Thou dost go.

Harriet Ware Hall
Boston, Massachusetts
Palm Sunday, 1879