The World pressed toward its Jericho,
The goal of its desire—
Its marts, its pleasures and its shrines
Its dreams of great empire.

A hoard of gold it bore along
To barter and to buy.
But on the road, by thieves beset,
It, too, was left to die.

The Son of God came down that way
To succour and to save,
To bind its wounds, to heal its sin
To lift it from the grave.

Lo! He too, went upon His way
When He had paid the price.
Marked by the red red lines that make
The Cross of Sacrifice.

Where all the woe of all the world
Upon His heart had lain
And all the sin of earth pressed sore
There gleamed that double stain.

And now we cannot name His name
Who is the Lord of Heaven,
Without a thought of that symbol
By love and pity given.

Now onward to our Jericho
We press with bated breath.
For evil grows the way, and dark.
On every hand stalks death.