Classic Poem

Be strong, be strong, O struggling saint,
Lift up thine heart, lift up thine eyes;
Nor in the conflict fail nor faint,
Until thou grasp the glorious prize.

Thy Lord on thee is looking down
With pity's tender pleading face;
And in His pierced hand the crown,
He longs upon thy brow to place.

Be of good courage: He has known
The bitterness of mortal strife,
And through the darkness pass'd alone
Into the perfect light of life.

Alas, upon the hills of time
Too many a shield is cast away,
And many a recreant fails to climb
The path that leads to endless day.

There are who, lamp in hand, are found
To slumber at the Bridegroom's gate.
And only waken as the sound
Dies in their ears, " Too late, too late. "

There are who like the traitor sell
The dear Lord for this passing world,
And bartering heaven itself for hell
To lowest depths of shame are hurl'd.

Thou weepest, — it is well, — for those
Who shipwreck of their faith have made:
Thou tremblest; it is well: God knows
Thy weakness, His Almighty aid.

Weep, tremble, struggle, — only cast
On Him thy weakness hour by hour,
And clinging to the cross hold fast
His word of patient love and power;

And thou with all His saints ere long,
Crown'd, robed in white, in Him complete,
Shalt sing the everlasting song
And cast thy trophies at His feet.