Through mi­ry paths I la­bored on;
Dark fell the mist, I could not see;
But when my feet were al­most gone,
A voice said—Turn, and look on Me.

Who com’st Thou, taunt­ed like a thief
By hard men, joy­ous in Thy fall?
Who art Thou, yearn­ing pale with grief
To some friend in the judg­ment hall?

O glance too kind for brok­en vow,
For crime sinned oft­en and afresh!
O thorns, that wring the pur­est brow
Made ev­er yet from hu­man flesh!

O print­ed hands, O print­ed feet,
O side, dug to the quick with steel!
I mar­vel, but no an­swer­ing heat
Strikes through my breast, to make it feel.

Ah Lord! but if Thy grace im­part
True sor­row for my in­ward stain,
That look will pierce me to the heart,
That crown will tear me to the brain.

Those marks up­on Thy feet and hands,
That fur­row in Thy sin­less side,
Will sear me as with ir­on brands
While I with Thee hang cru­ci­fied.

Nay, but the world—too far, too much
She lures me with her pow­er to please.
How can I bear Thy heal­ing touch
To rob me of my sweet dis­ease?

For e’en again that path of mire,
That dim place, where the mist came down,
Seems, for its joy, worth end­less fire,
Such dreams my soul in poi­son drown.

I bathe me in a false de­light,
Chew dust for bread: yet, Lord, I pray,
Come, for with­out Thee day is night,
Come now, for with Thee night is day.

Yea, by Thy love, Thy toil to save,
Thy pray­er, Thy groans, Thy bloody sweat,
Thy death, Thy ris­ing from the grave,
Look down from Heav’n, and hear me yet.