To praise the Cross while yet untried,

Comes oft of self-conceit and pride;

But when it presses, to embrace

And love it, only comes of grace.

Nay! not sore the Cross's weight,

Save to souls the Cross that hate;

Souls that can with love receive it,

Childlike to their Father leave it,

May be still 'mid all its woe,

And a strange deep gladness know.

Only Self-love murmurs yet,

Only Sense and Nature fret,

They repine, for they must perish

If the soul true life will cherish;

Light and dear the Cross shall prove,

For it is the gift of Love.