My trust is lost, sign of thy service dear—
Dost thou bear all, dear Lord, for me no share?
So in thy steps to follow still I seek,
The wearing way thy patient feet have pressed,
The blood-stained way thy heavy cross hath blessed—
Dost thou hold me to suffer aught too weak?
E’en when I strive one little thorn to grasp
It turns to tender roses in my clasp.
VIII.
The very stones win smoothness from thy feet,