The startling question in the above line is answered with emphasis in the third of the stanza,--
_No_! There's a cross for every one, And there's a cross for _me_,
--and this is followed by the song of resolve and triumph,--
The consecrated cross I'll bear, Till death shall set me free. And then go home my crown to wear, For there's a crown for me.
O precious cross! O glorious crown! O Resurrection Day! Ye angels from the stars flash down And bear my soul away!
The hymn is a personal New Testament. No one who analyzes it and feels its Christian vitality will wonder why it has lived so long.
For half a century George N. Allen, composer of "Maitland," the music inseparable from the hymn, was credited with the authorship of the words also, but his vocal aid to the heart-stirring poem earned him sufficient praise. The tune did not meet the hymn till the latter was so old that the real author was mostly forgotten, for Allen wrote the music in 1849; but if the fine stanzas needed any renewing it was his tune that made them new. Since it was published nobody has wanted another.
George Nelson Allen was born in Mansfield, Mass., Sept. 7, 1812, and lived at Oberlin, O. It was there that he composed "Maitland," and compiled the _Social and Sabbath Hymn-book_--besides songs for the _Western Bell_, published by Oliver Ditson and Co. He died in Cincinnati, Dec. 9, 1877.
This most popular of Dr. Doddridge's hymns is also the richest one of all in lyrical and spiritual life. It is a stadium song that sounds the starting-note for every young Christian at the outset of his career, and the slogan for every faint Christian on the way.
A _heavenly_ race demands thy zeal, And an immortal crown.
Like the "Coronation" hymn, it transports the devout singer till he feels only the momentum of the words and forgets whether it is common or hallelujah metre that carries him along.
A cloud of witnesses around Hold thee in full survey; Forget the steps already trod, And onward urge thy way!
'Tis God's all-animating voice That calls thee from on high, 'Tis His own hand presents the prize To thine aspiring eye.
In all persuasive hymnology there is no more kindling lyric that this. As a field-hymn it is indispensable.