Josiah Conder (1789–1855)

HOW shall I follow Him I serve?

How shall I copy Him I love?

Nor from those blessèd footsteps swerve

Which lead me to His seat above?

Privations, sorrows, bitter scorn,

The life of toil, the mean abode,

The faithless kiss, the crown of thorn,

Are these the consecrated road?

’Twas thus He suffered, though a Son

Foreknowing, choosing, feeling all,

Until the perfect work was done,

And drunk the bitter cup of gall.

Lord! should my path through suffering lie

Forbid it I should e’er repine.

Still let me turn to Calvary,

Nor heed my griefs, remembering Thine.

Oh, let me think how Thou didst leave

Untasted every pure delight,

To fast, to faint, to watch, to grieve,

The toilsome day, the homeless night:—

To faint, to grieve, to die for me!

Thou earnest, not Thyself to please;

And, dear as earthly comforts be,

Shall I not love Thee more than these?

Yes! I would count them all but loss,

To gain the notice of Thine eye:

Flesh shrinks and trembles at the cross,

But Thou canst give the victory….