The faithful life hath, patient, won its prize;
Whenever hearts beat high and brave hopes swell
The soul, some Rachel waits beside the well;
For her the load is borne, the desert crossed.
What matters it? Love counteth not the cost.
This then of man—and what, dear Lord, of thee,
Bowed in the midnight of Gethsemane—
Come from those regions infinite with peace,
To buy with such a price the world's release?
Thy voice descends, through ages tempest-tossed,