My shoulders ache beneath my pack
Lie easier, Cross, upon His back.

I march with feet that burn and smart
Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart.

Men shout at me who may not speak
They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek.

I may not lift a hand to clear
My eyes of salty drops that sear.

Then shall my fickle soul forget
Thy agony of Bloody Sweat?

My rifle hand is stiff and numb
From Thy pierced palm red rivers come.

Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me
Than all the hosts of land and sea.

So let me render back again
This millionth of Thy gift.


Joyce Kilmer


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