Through Miry Paths I Labored On

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.”

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?

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!

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.