 | The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley |  |
THE RESIGNATION.
Long have I view'd, long have I thought,
And trembling held this bitter draught;
'Twas now just to my lips applied,
Nature shrank in, my courage died:
But now resolved and firm I'll be,
Since, Lord, 'tis mixt and given by Thee.
And trembling held this bitter draught;
11
Nature shrank in, my courage died:
But now resolved and firm I'll be,
Since, Lord, 'tis mixt and given by Thee.
I'll trust my Great Physician's skill,
What He prescribes can ne'er be ill:
For each disease He knows what's fit,
He's wise and good, and I'll submit:
No longer will I grieve or pine;
Thy pleasure 'tis, it shall be mine.
What He prescribes can ne'er be ill:
For each disease He knows what's fit,
He's wise and good, and I'll submit:
No longer will I grieve or pine;
Thy pleasure 'tis, it shall be mine.
Thy med'cine puts me to great smart,
Thou wound'st me in the tenderest part;
But 'tis with a design to cure;
I must and will Thy touch endure:
All that I prized below is gone;
Yet still, Father, Thy will be done.
Thou wound'st me in the tenderest part;
But 'tis with a design to cure;
I must and will Thy touch endure:
All that I prized below is gone;
Yet still, Father, Thy will be done.
Since 'tis Thy sentence I should part
With what was nearest to my heart,
I freely that and more resign;
Behold, my heart itself is Thine:
My little all I give to Thee;
Thou hast bestow'd Thy Son on me.
With what was nearest to my heart,
I freely that and more resign;
Behold, my heart itself is Thine:
My little all I give to Thee;
Thou hast bestow'd Thy Son on me.
He left true bliss and joy above,
Emptied Himself of all but love;
For me He freely did forsake
More than from me He e'er can take:
A mortal life for a divine
He took, and did even that resign.
Emptied Himself of all but love;
For me He freely did forsake
More than from me He e'er can take:
A mortal life for a divine
He took, and did even that resign.
Take all, Great God, I will not grieve,
But still wish I had still to give.
I hear Thy voice, Thou bidd'st me quit
My paradise, and I submit;
I will not murmur at Thy word,
Nor beg Thee yet to sheathe Thy sword.
But still wish I had still to give.
I hear Thy voice, Thou bidd'st me quit
My paradise, and I submit;
12
Nor beg Thee yet to sheathe Thy sword.
| The poetical works of John and Charles Wesley | |