My Faith, It Is an Oaken Staff

My faith

it is an oak­en staff

The tra­vel­er’s well-loved aid;

My faith

it is a wea­pon stout

The sol­dier’s trus­ty blade:

I’ll tra­vel on

and still be stirred

By si­lent thought or so­cial word

By all my per­ils un­de­terred

A sol­dier-pil­grim staid.

I have a cap­tain

and the heart

Of ev­ery pri­vate man

Has drunk in val­or from His eyes

Since first the war be­gan:

He is most mer­ci­ful in fight

And of His scars a sin­gle sight

The em­bers of our fail­ing might

Into a flame can fan.

I have a guide

and in His steps

When tra­vel­ers have trod

Whether be­neath was flin­ty rock

Or yield­ing gras­sy sod

They cared not

but with force un­spent

Unmoved by pain

they on­ward went

Unstayed by plea­sures

still they bent

Their zeal­ous course to God.

My faith

it is an oak­en staff

Oh

let me on it lean;

My faith

it is a trus­ty sword

May false­hood find it keen!

Thy Spir­it

Lord

to me im­part

O make me what Thou ev­er art—

Of pa­tient and cou­rag­eous heart

As all true saints have been.