My faith, it is an oak­en staff,
The tra­vel­er’s well-loved aid;
My faith, it is a wea­pon stout,
The sol­dier’s trus­ty blade:
I’ll tra­vel on, and still be stirred,
By si­lent thought or so­cial word,
By all my per­ils un­de­terred,
A sol­dier-pil­grim staid.

I have a cap­tain, and the heart
Of ev­ery pri­vate man
Has drunk in val­or from His eyes
Since first the war be­gan:
He is most mer­ci­ful in fight,
And of His scars a sin­gle sight
The em­bers of our fail­ing might
Into a flame can fan.

I have a guide, and in His steps
When tra­vel­ers have trod,
Whether be­neath was flin­ty rock
Or yield­ing gras­sy sod,
They cared not, but with force un­spent,
Unmoved by pain, they on­ward went,
Unstayed by plea­sures, still they bent
Their zeal­ous course to God.

My faith, it is an oak­en staff,
Oh, let me on it lean;
My faith, it is a trus­ty sword,
May false­hood find it keen!
Thy Spir­it, Lord, to me im­part,
O make me what Thou ev­er art—
Of pa­tient and cou­rag­eous heart,
As all true saints have been.