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,