Not by the martyr’s death alone The saint his crown in Heav’n has won; There is a triumph robe on high For bloodless fields of victory. What though he was not called to feel The cross, or flame, or torturing wheel, Yet daily to the world he died; His flesh, through grace, he crucified. What though nor chains, nor scourges sore, Nor cruel beasts his members tore, Enough if perfect love arise For Christ a grateful sacrifice. Lord, grant us so to Thee to turn That we through life to die may learn, And thus, when life’s brief day is o’er, May live with Thee forevermore. O Fount of sanctity and love, O perfect Rest of saints above, All praise, all glory be to Thee Both now and through eternity. |