The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 26. |
| 27. |
| 28. |
| 29. |
| 30. |
| 31. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
118
April 5 THANKS-BUILDING
“Except the Lord build the house, they labour in vain that
build it.”—Ps. cxxvii. 1.
Father, I thank Thee that I must
Expand the temple which I raise
For Thine indwelling out of trust,
And build yet nobler praise on praise;
That nothing fills me now or can
Compel to an enduring home,
Each moment magnifies Thy plan
And shows me purer bliss to come.
Expand the temple which I raise
For Thine indwelling out of trust,
And build yet nobler praise on praise;
That nothing fills me now or can
Compel to an enduring home,
Each moment magnifies Thy plan
And shows me purer bliss to come.
I thank Thee for the helpful flints
Which tear the feet with sordid aims,
And loving wounds that leave their prints
Upon the soul in grander claims;
When I would falter for a space
And dream of some poor false repose,
Or lose the vision of Thy Face,
If paradises here unclose.
Which tear the feet with sordid aims,
And loving wounds that leave their prints
Upon the soul in grander claims;
When I would falter for a space
And dream of some poor false repose,
Or lose the vision of Thy Face,
If paradises here unclose.
I thank Thee for the purpose large
Which is a reflex of Thine own,
And carries me from marge to marge
To conquer still more worlds unknown;
That I shall nowhere anchor, save
Within Thine Arms which lift so high
My efforts now, and in the grave
When all seems lost are yet most nigh.
Which is a reflex of Thine own,
And carries me from marge to marge
To conquer still more worlds unknown;
That I shall nowhere anchor, save
Within Thine Arms which lift so high
My efforts now, and in the grave
When all seems lost are yet most nigh.
| The Prisoner of Love | |