THE CROSS.
Reading edition
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.