Whose depth words scarely frame:
The war that even now within
Strikes at Your holy name.
What effort, yea, what discipline
Can such disorder tame?
Yet through my inward bedlam's din
Your love remains the same.
O Lord, You know the debt I owe,
Down to the basest mite:
Yes, how to pay it blood must flow
And Death assert his right.
Yet as a silent lamb You go,
Bared to his baneful bite,
And all his powers overthrow
Full in his prince's sight.
O Lord, You know how Naaman's bath
Could make the leper pure;
Likewise, of sin and doubt and wrath
You know a certain cure.
Plucked as a grain from beaten path,
From worldly lust and lure,
Drown me and into me blow faith:
Make my salvation sure.
You know, Lord, how a widow's jar
Of oil and bowl of meal
Might never fail of food: You are
Swift always to reveal
Gifts that surpass man's grasp by far,
And what You say is real.
You summoned bread from heav'n afar;
So, too, Lord, with me deal!
And now, O Lord, You know the day
Once even hid from You,
Since into heav'n You strode away,
Your Father's throne to view.
Make haste, then! Lend Your gospel sway,
All that You will to do,
And homeward call us all, I pray—
All whom so well You knew.
No comments:
Post a Comment