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.

Oh, 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.

But when, my days with com­forts crowned
As hus­band and as par­ent blessed,
I look with tear­ful joy around,
And clasp my trea­sures to my breast;

Oh, 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.

Thou, who did for Pe­ter’s faith didst pray
Against whose bless­èd self were hurled
The tempt­er’s darts, be Thou my stay!
Help me to ov­er­come the world.

Thy grace can make the boastful meek,
The wa­ver­ing firm, the sens­ual pure;
Put heav­en­ly might up­on the weak,
And make them hap­py who en­dure.

Oh, still that need­ful grace af­ford!
On Thee my trem­bling soul I cast.
Perfect Thy work with­in me, Lord,
And own my worth­less name at last.