You know our struggles, Lord, and where they lead,
You know the price behind the suffering deed—
We feel none understands our pain and tears,
Our yearnings, daily needs and lonely years.
The Cross of Christ refuses selfish whining,
“Your will be done” cuts off Egyptian pining;
No lower could the Son of Mary go,
So death to self and dying, Lord, you know.
Forgive my petty groans and small complaints,
Ingratitude is unbecoming of saints;
In Jesus’ agony let me rejoice,
To Calvary’s love and grace let me give voice.