O Lord, Thy gracious hand
In love, but heaviness,
Doth often, and again,
Through sorrow and through pain,
(But with intent to bless,)
Reveal how little like I am
To Christ my Lord, Thy chosen Lamb.

I may not lift mine eyes
To Thee my God, and say
I'm worthy of one thing
Thy grace to me doth bring:-
Thy debtor every day-
Yet, still I plead Thine own sure Word,
Which casts me on Thy mercy, Lord.

O Christ, my heart's resource,
In whom all fulness is-
My Life, my Light, my Joy,
My Peace, my soul's employ,
My only lasting bliss.
To Thee my longing doth aspire;
To Thee, O Lord, is my desire.

How could this beggared world
Have anything to give?
The things my hands would hold
Might cost me pain untold;
My joy in Thee must live,
And so I give them back to Thee
To keep, and sanctify for me.

I know Thou wilt not choose
The heart to be for Thee,
O'er-filled with earthly things;
No heart like this e'er sings
The heavenly melody
It gives Thee joy, O Lord, to hear;
Then let me to Thyself draw near.

Nor wilt Thou choose, my God,
The hands to work for Thee
O'er-filled with earthly fruits,
Whose e'er descending roots
Are drawing constantly
Their sustenance (of nothing worth)
From out a ruined, cursed earth.

Thou canst not satisfy
With Thy sweet whisperings
Th' unconsecrated ear,
That seeks and loves to hear
Unhallowed fleshly things
Which waste away the precious days,
And rob Thee of Thy rightful praise.

Thou'lt follow, but not walk
In close companionship
With those whose wayward feet
Have chosen paths unmeet,
Where they must surely slip.
What joy untold, they wilful lose,
Who thus His blessed paths refuse.

Then mold this vessel frail
With Thine unerring hand;
I dare not undertake,
Lest I might rudely break
Some tender chord or band;
Thou'lt shape it for eternity,
And none may do this work but Thee.

Thus fashioned, Lord, by Thee,
I may not choose the way
Thou'lt seek Thy plant to prune,
Or set my harp in tune
For some sweet melody,
Or wake the new, old song again,
My first love's rapturous refrain.

H. McD.