In pews of plush, where lights are soft and low,
A faith is preached that costs the soul but naught;
No narrow gate, no thorns that pierce and grow,
But velvet paths where worldly ease is sought.

“Come as you are,” the gentle voices sing,
And stay as is—no change the heart requires;
Forgiveness flows like wine from every spring,
While lust and greed wear Sunday-best attires.

The cross is hung as ornament so fine,
A symbol quaint for walls of marble white;
Yet few will take it up and make it mine,
To die to self beneath its heavy might.

For lust of eyes and flesh the sermons mute,
Or whisper soft that grace will cover all;
No call to flee the flame, no stern rebuke,
Just “God loves you” that lets the old man brawl.

The rich man sleeps in purple robes of pride,
The widow’s mite is praised but never matched;
They love the world and all its glittering tide,
While claiming Christ—yet never truly latched.

True faith, as Scripture’s blazing pages show,
Demands the whole: the heart, the mind, the will;
To hate one’s life, to let the old self go,
And follow Him up Calvary’s rugged hill.

No comfortable couch for pilgrim feet—
The road is rough, the battle fierce and long;
Yet there, in loss, the soul at last shall meet
The joy that only costly grace makes strong.

Awake, O sleeper! Cast the drowsy spell,
Renounce the lie that heaven bends to earth;
Take up your cross, and in its shadow dwell—
Rise, take the cross—let cheap faith fade and weep.