Jesus…so that He might sanctify the people with His own blood, suffered outside the gate. Therefore let us go forth to Him outside the camp, bearing the reproach that He bore. Hebrews 13:12–13
Words: Horatius Bonar, Hymns of Faith and Hope, second series (London: James Nisbet, 1861), pages 188–90, alt.
Silent, like men in solemn haste,
Girded wayfarers of the waste,
We pass out at the world’s wide gate,
Turning our back on all its state;
We press along the narrow road
That leads to life, to bliss, to God.
We cannot and we would not stay;
We dread the snares that throng the way,
We fling aside the weight and sin,
Resolved the victory to win;
We know the peril, but our eyes
Rest on the splendor of the prize.
No idling now, no wasteful sleep,
From Christian toil our limbs to keep;
No shrinking from the desperate fight
No thought of yielding or of flight,
No love of present gain or ease,
No seeking man nor self to please.
No sorrow for the loss of fame,
No dread of scandal on our name;
No terror for the world’s sharp scorn,
No wish that taunting to return;
No hatred can our hatred move,
And enmity but kindles love.
No sigh for laughter left behind,
Or pleasures scattered to the wind,
No looking back on Sodom’s plains,
No listening still to Babel’s strains,
No tears for Egypt’s song and smile,
No thirsting for its flowing Nile.
No vanity nor folly now;
No fading garland round our brow,
No moody musings in the grove,
No pang of disappointed love,
But with brave heart and steady eye,
We onward march to victory.
What though with weariness oppressed?
’Tis but a little, then we rest.
This throbbing heart and burning brain
Will soon be calm and cool again.
Night is far spent and morn is near,
Morn of the cloudless and the clear!
’Tis but a little, and we come
To our reward, our crown, our home!
Another year, it may be less,
And we have crossed the wilderness,
Finished the toil, the rest begun,
The battle fought, the triumph won!
We grudge not, then, the toil, the way;
Its ending is the endless day!
We shrink not from these tempests keen,
With little of the calm between;
We welcome each descending sun;
Ere morn, our joy may be begun!