Your call is clear, cold centuries across;
You bid me follow you, and take my cross,
And daily lose myself, myself deny,
And stern against myself shout ‘Crucify’.
My stubborn nature rises to rebel
Against your call. Proud choruses of hell
Unite to magnify my restless hate
Of servitude, lest I capitulate.
The world, to see my cross, would pause and jeer.
I have no choice, but still to persevere
To save myself—and follow you from far,
More slow than Magi—for I have no star.
And yet you call me still. Your cross
Eclipses mine, transforms the bitter loss
I thought that I would suffer if I came
To you—into immeasurable gain.
I kneel before you, Jesus, crucified,
My cross is shouldered and my self denied;
I’ll follow daily, closely, not refuse
For love of you and man myself to lose.
© 1958, John R.W. Stott