The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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June 20
SIN AND ITS REMEDY |
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The Prisoner of Love | ||
206
June 20 SIN AND ITS REMEDY
“All we like sheep have gone astray; ... and the Lord hath
laid on him the iniquity of us all.”—Isa. liii. 6.
I do repent of my repentance, Lord;
It stabs me like some unavailing sword
Daily as at Thy Blessèd Feet I lie,
And strive to kill the stains that cannot die;
Ah, it increases all the load of guilt
Which I these dim and dreadful years have built
Betwixt me and Thy dear unspotted dress,
The splendour of that awful Righteousness.
It stabs me like some unavailing sword
Daily as at Thy Blessèd Feet I lie,
And strive to kill the stains that cannot die;
Ah, it increases all the load of guilt
Which I these dim and dreadful years have built
Betwixt me and Thy dear unspotted dress,
The splendour of that awful Righteousness.
My sorrow is but sin, and hourly more,
Which yet Thy Passion in its fulness bore
For me in mercy that I scarce can claim,
While earthly still in every act and aim;
I fain would weep for tears that only blot
This bitter record worse and cleanse me not,
My praises seem to multiply the debt
And the remorse breeds but a vain regret.
Which yet Thy Passion in its fulness bore
For me in mercy that I scarce can claim,
While earthly still in every act and aim;
I fain would weep for tears that only blot
This bitter record worse and cleanse me not,
My praises seem to multiply the debt
And the remorse breeds but a vain regret.
In me is nothing good, my faith mere doubt
That dares no deeps, and never launches out;
My very love is cold as winter ice,
And all my offerings were no sacrifice.
Therefore I flee, despite the waves that toss
And adverse winds that blow me, to Thy Cross—
As to its nest at last the homing dove—
The measure of my guilt and of Thy love.
That dares no deeps, and never launches out;
My very love is cold as winter ice,
And all my offerings were no sacrifice.
Therefore I flee, despite the waves that toss
And adverse winds that blow me, to Thy Cross—
As to its nest at last the homing dove—
The measure of my guilt and of Thy love.
The Prisoner of Love | ||