Marred more than any man's! Yet there's no place
In this wide universe but gains new grace
Richer and fuller, from that marred Face! 

O Saviour Christ! those precious wounds of Thine 
Make doubly precious these poor wounds of mine; 
Teach me to die with Thee the death divine; 

All wounds and woes of earth, once made Thine own,
Add colour to the rainbow round the throne, 
And save from loneliness saints else alone. 

Pain trims the lamps at Nature's eventide, 
Ere the King enters to bring home His Bride, 
My King, by suffering perfected and tried! 

Beloved ones are hastening past, and all
The ground is strewn with blossoms they let fall
In haste to gain Love's crowning festival. 

Heaven beckons now--press me toward the mark
Of my high calling. Hark! He calls! O! hark!
That wounded Face moves toward me through the dark!

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