1 Through miry paths I labored on;
Dark fell the mist, I could not see;
But when my feet were almost gone,
A voice said—"Turn, and look on Me."

2 Who com’st Thou, taunted like a thief
By hard men, joyous in Thy fall?
Who art Thou, yearning pale with grief
To some friend in the judgment hall?

2 O glance too kind for broken vow,
For crime sinned often and afresh!
O thorns, that wring the purest brow
Made ever yet from human flesh!

3 O printed hands, O printed feet,
O side, dug to the quick with steel!
I marvel, but no answering heat
Strikes through my breast, to make it feel.

4 Ah Lord! but if Thy grace impart
True sorrow for my inward stain,
That look will pierce me to the heart,
That crown will tear me to the brain.

5 Those marks upon Thy feet and hands,
That furrow in Thy sinless side,
Will sear me as with iron brands
While I with Thee hang crucified.

6 Nay, but the world—too far, too much
She lures me with her power to please.
How can I bear Thy healing touch
To rob me of my sweet disease?

7 For e’en again that path of mire,
That dim place, where the mist came down,
Seems, for its joy, worth endless fire,
Such dreams my soul in poison drown.

8 I bathe me in a false delight,
Chew dust for bread: yet, Lord, I pray,
Come, for without Thee day is night,
Come now, for with Thee night is day.

9 Yea, by Thy love, Thy toil to save,
Thy prayer, Thy groans, Thy bloody sweat,
Thy death, Thy rising from the grave,
Look down from Heav’n, and hear me yet.