“It may not be for silver,
It may not be for gold.
But still by tens of thousands
Is this precious Saviour sold,
Sold for a godless friendship,
Sold for a selfish aim,
Sold for a fleeting trifle,
Sold for an empty name,
Sold in the mart of Science.
Sold in the seat of Power,
Sold at the shrine of Fortune,
Sold in Pleasure’s bower,
Sold where the awful bargain
None but God’s eye can see!
Ponder, my soul, the question:
Shall He be sold by thee?
Sold! O God, what a moment!
Stifled is conscience’ voice!
Sold! And a weeping angel
Records the fatal choice!
Sold! But the price of the Saviour
To a living coal shall turn,
With the pangs of Remorse forever
Deep in the soul to burn.”