Oh, grieve not o’er the weary way,
Nor let its roughness make thee stay!
Press on with still unflinching zeal;
Thy living Lord with thee doth feel;
For Him, for Him the race be run;
What matters ought but His “Well done”?
For Christ thy Lord, for His dear name,
Above man’s praise, below man’s blame,
By love unbiased, hate unswerved,
Thy heart by His own power so nerved,
That for His sake — that peerless One —
Thou’lt all things dare for His “Well done.”
Let no man rob thee of thy crown,
Nor close thy mouth, nor bring thee down,
Nor chill thy heart with Christ aflame,
To wait upon his praise or blame;
Soon, soon the battle will be won;
What matters ought but Christ’s “Well done”?
Aye, run the race; the promised crown
Upon thy head shall yet come down;
Aye, fight the fight; it is thy Lord’s;
His lips shall speak the rallying words,
His smile proclaim the victory won,
His voice accord His own “Well done.”
J. Leake