Classic Poem

Broad is the road that leads to death,
And thousands walk together there,
But wisdom shews a narrow path,
With here and there a traveller.

Deny thy-self, and take thy cross,
Is the Redeemer's great command!
Nature must count her gold but dross,
If she would gain this heavenly land.

The fearful soul that tires and faints,
And walks the ways of God no more,
Is but esteemed--almost a saint,
And makes his own destruction sure.

Lord, let not all my hopes be vain,
Create my heart entirely new;
Which hypocrites could ne'er attain,
Which false apostates never knew.