Near. 
     Not death the Christian’s prayer, but daily bread. 
     Live to protect the flock, so sore oppressed.

     Poly. 
     Example be their friend, most sure, most blessed!

     Near. 
     Thou woo’st thy death!

     Poly. 
     Is this poor life so dear?

     Near. 
     Ah, I must own my heart is slave to fear. 
     The rack!  The cross!  I might my Lord disown!

     Poly. 
     From Him our help, our strength, from Him alone! 
     Who fears denial does at heart deny;
     Who doubts the power of faith makes faith a lie!

     Near. 
     Who leans upon a reed shall find distress.

     Poly. 
     His staff will guide, support my feebleness. 
     Thou wert my staff, to show the Truth, the Way,
     Must I now urge thee to the realms of day? 
     Thou fearest death?

     Near. 
     The Christ once feared to die!

     Poly. 
     Yet drained the bitter cup of agony! 
     The way that thou hast shown—­that way He trod;
     His way be ours to lead man’s soul to God—­
     For heathen shrine—­to rear His altar fair,—­
     The deathless hope alone can kill despair! 
     Thou said’st:  ’If Him thou wilt for pattern take,
     Then leave wife, wealth, home, all for His dear sake!’
     Alas, that love of thine, now weak and poor,
     Glows yet within my breast—­and shall endure;
     Ah, must the dawn of this my perfect day
     Find thy full light beclouded, dimmed, astray?

     Near. 
     Baptismal waters yet bedew thy brow;
     The grace that once was mine, that grace hast thou. 
     No worldly thought has checked the flow, no guilty act has stained;
     Thy wings are strong, while mine are weak; thy love is fresh,
          ungeigned,—­
     To these, thy heights, I cannot soar, held down by sense and sin,
     How can I storm the citadel?—­the traitor lurks within! 
     Forsake me not, my God!  Thy spirit pour! 
     Oh, make me true to Him whom I adore! 
     With Thee I rise,—­the flesh, the world, defy,
     Thou, who hast died for me, for Thee I die! 
     Yes, I will go!  With heaven-born zeal I burn,
     I will be free,—­all Satan’s lures I spurn;
     Death, torture, outrage, these will I embrace,
     To nerve my heart and arm, Heaven grant me grace!

     Poly. 
     On eagle wings of faith and hope ascend! 
     I hail my master—­recognise my friend;
     The old faith wanes,—­we light her funeral pyre,
     Her ashes fall before our holy fire;
     Come, trample under foot the gods that men have wrought;
     The rotten, helpless staff is broke, is gone—­is naught. 
     Their darkness felt they own, but let them see the light! 
     Their gods of stone, of clay, but vampires of the night! 
     Their dust shall turn to dust,—­shall moulder with the sod,
     Ours for His name to fight:—­the issue is with God.