I stagger on with weary shoulders bowed
Beneath the burden of my self-made cross.
Tired arms I lift to Thee, but manacled
In self-forged, rankling chains.
Feet stone-bruised, brier-torn, bleeding, too,
For though the way I chose seemed fair,
But masked sharp stones and sharper thorns.
I did not know in chambers of my heart
Unhallowed thought was building me my cross;
Nor dream that all the fretwork that I carved,
The jewels that I set,
Were so much agony of flesh,
To be erased with heartache dull,
With bitter tears and sorrow deep.
I thought Thou mad'st the cross and jewels all;
I thought Thou set'st the thorns and laid'st the stones;
And bitter was my supplicating cry
As arms to Thee I raised.
But now I know that I alone
Hewed wood and nailed the cross-piece on;
Bejeweling with lusts and fears.
