THE CROSS.
In weary hours to lonely heights
When thou hast travelled sore,
A sorrowing man hath borne his cross
And gone thy way before.
Thine eyes cannot escape the sign
On every hand that is
Of him who bore the general woe,
Nor knew a common bliss.
But men, remembering his face,
Dreamed of him while they slept,
And the mother by the cradle side
Thought of his eye, and wept.
Now haunts the world his ghost whose fate
Made all men's fates his own;
So for the wrongs of modest hearts
A myriad hearts atone.
Oh! deeply shall thy spirit toil
To reach the height he trod,
And humbly strive thy soul to know
Its servant was its God.
Only earth's martyr is her lord;
Such is the gain of loss:
And, looking in all hearts, I see
The signal of the cross.