Classic Poem

Raised on high, above the city,
Oft I see the sacred cross;
Telling of the Savior's sufferings,
Borne for men with shame and loss!

When amidst its streets I wander,
And its tempting pleasures seek;
From the cross a strength there cometh,
And no longer I am weak.

When I covet others' honors,
Wish their wealth, or homes were mine;
Then the cross uplifts my spirit,
And no longer I repine.

When I murmur faint, and weary,
Grow impatient at my lot;
Then I look upon the symbol,
And my sufferings are forgot.

When for good of men I labor,
Yet for this I suffer wrong;
Then the cross its lesson teaches,
Then, though weak, I yet am strong.

Then, the outward cross doth vanish,
From my eye and from my thought;
And, all glorified, my Savior
To my mind again is brought!

Not as when he bore his anguish,
Hanging on the accursed tree;
But, as raised above all passion,
Doth the Savior come to me;

And another life I enter,
With its peace before unknown;
And, with countless tribes and nations,
Stand confessed before the throne.