Nay! not sore the Cross's weight,

Save to souls the Cross that hate;

Souls that can with love receive it,

Childlike to their Father leave it,

May be still 'mid all its woe,

And a strange deep gladness know.

Only Self-love murmurs yet,

Only Sense and Nature fret,

They repine, for they must perish

If the soul true life will cherish;

Light and dear the Cross shall prove,

For it is the gift of Love.