How shall I fol­low Him I serve?
How shall I co­py Him I love?
Not from the bless­èd foot­steps swerve,
Which lead me to His seat above?

Privations, sor­rows, bit­ter scorn,
The life of toil, the mean abode,
The faith­less kiss, the crown of thorn,
Are these the con­se­crat­ed road?

’Twas thus He suf­fered, though a Son,
Foreknowing, choos­ing, feel­ing all,
Until the per­fect work was done,
And drunk the bit­ter cup of gall.

Lord, should my path through suf­fer­ing lie
Forbid it I should e’er re­pine;
Still let me turn to Cal­va­ry,
Nor heed my griefs, re­mem­ber­ing Thine.

O let me think how Thou didst leave
Untasted ev­ery pure de­light,
To fast, to faint, to watch, to grieve,
The toil­some day, the home­less night.

To faint, to grieve, to die for me!
Thou cam­est, not Thy­self to please;
And, dear as earth­ly com­forts be,
Shall I not love Thee more than these?

Yes, I would count them all but loss,
To gain the no­tice of Thine eye:
Flesh shrinks and trem­bles at the cross,
But Thou canst give the vic­to­ry.