  “Hear me, my God, and if my lip hath dared To murmur ’neath Thy Hand, oh, teach me now To feel each inmost thought before Thee bared, And this rebellious will in faith to bow. Though I wept wildly o’er the ruined shrine, Where earthly idols held Thy place alone, Now purify and make this temple Thine, And teach me, Lord, to say, ‘Thy will be done!’ “What can I bring to offer that is mine? A youth of sorrow, and a life of sin. What can I lay upon Thy hallowed shrine, One hope of pardon for the past to win? While thus a suppliant at Thy feet I bow, Still dare I lift to Thee my tearful eyes, I plead the promise of Thy word, that Thou A broken, contrite heart will not despise. “What shall I bring? A bruised spirit, Lord, Worn with the contest, pining now for rest, And yearning for Thy peace, as some poor bird, ’Mid the wild tempest, seeks its mother’s breast, My sacrifice, the Lamb who died for me; I plead the merits of Thy sinless Son; I bring Thy promises; I trust in Thee; In love Thou smitest; Lord, ‘Thy will be done!’” |
|
