Not by the mar­tyr’s death alone
The saint his crown in Heav’n has won;
There is a tri­umph robe on high
For blood­less fields of vic­to­ry.

What though he was not called to feel
The cross, or flame, or tor­tur­ing wheel,
Yet dai­ly to the world he died;
His flesh, through grace, he cru­ci­fied.

What though nor chains, nor scourg­es sore,
Nor cru­el beasts his mem­bers tore,
Enough if per­fect love arise
For Christ a grate­ful sac­ri­fice.

Lord, grant us so to Thee to turn
That we through life to die may learn,
And thus, when life’s brief day is o’er,
May live with Thee for­ev­er­more.

O Fount of sanc­ti­ty and love,
O per­fect Rest of saints ab­ove,
All praise, all glo­ry be to Thee
Both now and through eter­ni­ty.