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.