Scripture Verse

Jesus…so that He might sanctify the people with His own blood, suffered outside the gate. Therefore let us go forth to Him outside the camp, bearing the reproach that He bore. Hebrews 13:12–13


Horatius Bonar (1808–1889)

Words: Ho­ra­ti­us Bo­nar, Hymns of Faith and Hope, se­cond ser­ies (Lon­don: James Nis­bet, 1861), pag­es 188–90, alt.

Music: Ei­sen­ach Jo­hann H. Schein, 1628. Har­mo­ny by Jo­hann S. Bach (1685–1750) (🔊 pdf nwc).

Alternate Tunes:

Johann S. Bach (1685–1750)


Silent, like men in so­lemn haste,
Girded way­far­ers of the waste,
We pass out at the world’s wide gate,
Turning our back on all its state;
We press along the nar­row road
That leads to life, to bliss, to God.

We can­not and we would not stay;
We dread the snares that throng the way,
We fling aside the weight and sin,
Resolved the vic­to­ry to win;
We know the pe­ril, but our eyes
Rest on the splen­dor of the prize.

No idl­ing now, no waste­ful sleep,
From Chris­tian toil our limbs to keep;
No shrink­ing from the des­per­ate fight
No thought of yield­ing or of flight,
No love of pre­sent gain or ease,
No seek­ing man nor self to please.

No sor­row for the loss of fame,
No dread of scan­dal on our name;
No ter­ror for the world’s sharp scorn,
No wish that taunt­ing to re­turn;
No hat­red can our hat­red move,
And en­mi­ty but kin­dles love.

No sigh for laugh­ter left be­hind,
Or plea­sures scat­tered to the wind,
No look­ing back on So­dom’s plains,
No list­en­ing still to Ba­bel’s strains,
No tears for Egypt’s song and smile,
No thirst­ing for its flow­ing Nile.

No va­ni­ty nor fol­ly now;
No fad­ing garland round our brow,
No moody mus­ings in the grove,
No pang of dis­ap­point­ed love,
But with brave heart and stea­dy eye,
We on­ward march to vic­to­ry.

What though with wea­ri­ness op­pressed?
’Tis but a lit­tle, then we rest.
This throb­bing heart and burn­ing brain
Will soon be calm and cool again.
Night is far spent and morn is near,
Morn of the cloud­less and the clear!

’Tis but a lit­tle, and we come
To our re­ward, our crown, our home!
Another year, it may be less,
And we have crossed the wil­der­ness,
Finished the toil, the rest be­gun,
The bat­tle fought, the tri­umph won!

We grudge not, then, the toil, the way;
Its end­ing is the end­less day!
We shrink not from these tem­pests keen,
With lit­tle of the calm be­tween;
We wel­come each des­cend­ing sun;
Ere morn, our joy may be be­gun!