1 There is no gain but by a loss;
We cannot save but by the cross,
Must fall into the ground and die;
2 Our souls are held by all they hold;
Slaves still are slaves in chains of gold;
We make it a soul-chaining thing.
3 Wherever you ripe fields behold,
Waving to God their sheaves of gold,
Be sure some corn of wheat has died,
Some saintly soul been crucified;
Someone has suffered, wept and prayed,
And fought hell's legions undismayed.