The Christian Race.
Wer das Kleinod will erlangen
Who would make the prize his own,
Runs as swiftly as he can;
Who would gain an earthly crown,
Strives in earnest as a man;
Trains himself betimes with care
For the conflict he would share,
Casts aside whate'er could be
Hindrance to His victory.
Lord, Thou biddest me aspire
To a prize so high, so grand,
That it sets my soul on fire
To be found amidst Thy band:
Oh how brightly shineth down
From Thy heights the starry crown
And the throne to victors given,
Who for Thee have bravely striven!
Yet it seems I strive in vain,
Lord, in pity look on me,
Thou my weakness must sustain,
Set me now from all things free
That would keep me from my goal;
Come, Thyself prepare my soul,
Give me joy and strength and life,
Help me in the race, the strife.
Well our utmost efforts worth
Is the crown I see afar,
Though the blinded sons of earth
Care not for our holy war;
An exceeding great reward
Is that crown of grace, my Lord;
Be Thyself my Strength divine,
And the prize shall soon be mine.