The world, with every passing hour our mettle tries.“Worship me!” each pagan god doth cry. The air
Is rent with silent desperate hurts; each aching care
Given o’er to worthless things. Crushing weight upon us lies.
Multitudes in dark confusion give their lives
To dead and worthless things. Foolishly they rave
In service of creation, that which cannot save,
Forfeiting the glory of the Word whose Life revives.
Heavy-burdened, we bear our constant packs, turningFrom Incarnate God who offers strange release.
Within his open arms at last we’ld find unrivaled peace.
To him at length we flee with grief, to satisfy our yearning.
Beneath his tender hand we find a queer and sweeter grace—The life of self drains away; a new Life takes its place.