He walks on crutches—slow of pace,

And lines of trouble on his face,

Speak plainer far than words can do,

The sorrow that his heart’s been through.


He once could climb those hills and stairs,

And play with boys in secret lairs;

But now he has but one good limb,

With much life’s joys denied to him.


But you are not alone, my friend,

For we too hobble to the end;

Although we’ve never lost a limb,

We do not always voice a hymn.


For sin is our great handicap,

It is our one and great mishap;

And oft we stumble and grow weak,

When only strength in self we seek.