Let Him batter my heart, O three-person'd God
For my old self, yet but a peevish master
That like a stake piled and pounded into earth's clod
To hinder and fetter my speed else but faster
Rush unto the breach, yet once again and again
Hurl myself ruthlessly, mercilessly, shamelessly
Counting nothing but knowing Christ as pure gain
And everything else as pure loss, pyrrhic glory.
To count this life as none so dear to keep
But only that it be sown in dishonor, in shame
That many lives shall thus we then reap
Bearing many to the glory of the Beautiful Name.