1.)  There is no gain but by a loss
We cannot save but by the cross.
The corn of wheat to multiply
Must fall into the ground and die.


2.) Our souls are helf by all they hold
Slaves are still slaves in chains of gold.
To whatsoever we may cling
We made it a soul-chaining thing.


3.) Where ever we ripe fields behold.
Waving to God their sheaves of gold.
Be sure some corn of wheat has died
Some saintly souls been crucified.


4.) Oh! should my soul alone remain
When it a hundred fold can gain
So count I, LORD, this world as dross;
That I may daily share Thy cross.

This poem could be sung to the tune of  “I ‘M PRESSING ON THE UPWARD WAY : Chorus Only”.


“Verily, verily, I say unto you,
Except a corn of  wheat fall
into the ground and die, it abideth”
alone: but if it die, it
bringeth forth much fruit” – Jn. 12:24

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