The Sav­ior call­eth, sin­ful one,
With out­stretched arms to thee ap­peals;
And art thou cold and hard as stone,
That nei­ther loves nor feels?
Christian, Chris­tian, kneel and weep,
Shake away dull sense of sleep,
That o’er thy spir­it steals.

The Son of God felt want and pain,
Before He Hea­ven’s throne at­tained,
And thou! with­out a fight and strain,
Think’st vic­to­ry can be gained?
Christian, Chris­tian, wres­tle sore:
Narrow way and strait­est door
Must ne­ver be dis­dained.

Behold Him dyed, from foot to crown,
With pur­ple blood, with ang­uish-streams,
And thou wouldst drift life’s ri­ver down,
In list­less sum­mer dreams.
Christian, Chris­tian, watch and pray
In thy brief, thy tri­al day,
As Chris­tian men be­seems.

The cross of pain is Da­vid’s key
That opes the pear­ly doors of light,
The up­ward path, a rug­ged way,
That leads to Hea­ven’s height.
Christian, Chris­tian, ev­er press
Over hard­ships, through dis­tress
And bat­tle, to de­light.