O Prince of Glory,
who dost bring
Thy sons to glory through Thy Cross,
Let me not shrink from suffering,
Reproach, or loss.
The dust of words would smother me;
Be all to me anathema
That turns me from Gethsemane,
If Thy dear Home be fuller, Lord,
For that a little emptier
My house on earth, what rich reward
That guerdon were.
And by the borders of my day
The river of Thy pleasure flows;
The flowers that blossoms by the way
who loves Thee knows.
Amy Carmichael, God's Missionary