O it is hard to work for God,
To rise and take His part
Upon this bat­tle­field of earth,
And not some­times lose heart!

He hides Him­self so won­drous­ly,
As though there were no God;
He is least seen when all the pow­ers
Of ill are most abroad;

Or He de­serts us at the hour
The fight is all but lost;
And seems to leave us to our­selves
Just when we need Him most.

O there is less to try our faith
In our mys­te­ri­ous creed,
Than in the god­less look of earth
In these our hours of need.

Ill mas­ters good; good seems to change
To ill with great­est ease;
And, worst of all, the good with good
Is at cross pur­pos­es.

The Church, the sac­ra­ments, the faith
Their up­hill journey take,
Lose here what there they gain, and, if
We lean up­on them, break.

It is not so, but so it looks;
And we lose cour­age then;
And doubts will come if God hath kept
His pro­mis­es to men.

Ah! God is oth­er than we think,
His ways are far above,
Far be­yond rea­son’s height, and reached
Only by child­like love.

The look, the fa­shion of God’s ways
Love’s life­long stu­dy are;
She can be bold, and guess, and act,
When rea­son would not dare.

She has a pru­dence of her own;
Her step is firm and free;
There is cau­tious sci­ence, too
In her sim­pli­ci­ty.

Workman of God! O lose not heart,
But learn what God is like,
And in the dark­est bat­tle­field
Thou shalt know where to strike.

O blest is he to whom is giv­en
The in­stinct that can tell
That God is on the field, when He
Is the most in­vi­si­ble!

And blest is he who can di­vine
Where real right doth lie,
And dares to take the side that seems
Wrong to man’s blind­fold eye!

O learn to scorn the praise of men!
And learn to lose with God!
For Je­sus won the world through shame,
And beck­ons thee His road.

God’s glo­ry is a won­drous thing,
Most strange in all its ways,
And, of all things on earth, least like
What men agree to praise.

As He can end­less glo­ry weave
From time’s mis­judg­ing shame,
In His own world He is con­tent
To play a los­ing game.

Muse on His jus­tice, down­cast soul!
Muse and take bet­ter heart;
Back with thine an­gel to the field,
Good luck shall crown thy part!

God’s jus­tice is a bed where we
Our anx­ious hearts may lay,
And, wea­ry with our­selves, may sleep
Our dis­con­tent away

For right is right, since God is God,
And right the day must win;
To doubt would be dis­loy­al­ty,
To fal­ter were to sin!