The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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August 8
FETTERED AND FREE |
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 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
258
August 8 FETTERED AND FREE
“In that he died, he died unto sin once: but in that he liveth,
he liveth unto God.”—Rom. vi. 10.
He is not crowned who never wears the cross,
Not were that life which was not utter loss
For Christ who is our only gain;
He cannot laugh who hath not learnt from tears
The secret that is riddled by our fears,
Nor plucked its blessing out of pain;
Love is not great, Lord, which would not be greater
Nor born that was not one with the Creator.
Not were that life which was not utter loss
For Christ who is our only gain;
He cannot laugh who hath not learnt from tears
The secret that is riddled by our fears,
Nor plucked its blessing out of pain;
Love is not great, Lord, which would not be greater
Nor born that was not one with the Creator.
Joy goes to sorrow if it would be wise,
He stoops the lowest who doth highest rise
And leans upon the chastening rod;
Hope studies in the barren schools of doubt,
To find the faith that comes most fruitful out
And draw the nearer to our God.
He is not good, Lord, who would not be better,
He is not free who hath not still Thy fetter.
He stoops the lowest who doth highest rise
And leans upon the chastening rod;
Hope studies in the barren schools of doubt,
To find the faith that comes most fruitful out
And draw the nearer to our God.
He is not good, Lord, who would not be better,
He is not free who hath not still Thy fetter.
Ere we lie down we feel no upward pull,
Till we are emptied we cannot be full
Of Christ who only fills our hearts;
And in the setting of our earthly sun
We see new morn in the old eve begun,
And healing out of broken parts.
He doth not live, who is not always dying
And finds his burdens but the wings for flying.
Till we are emptied we cannot be full
Of Christ who only fills our hearts;
And in the setting of our earthly sun
We see new morn in the old eve begun,
And healing out of broken parts.
He doth not live, who is not always dying
And finds his burdens but the wings for flying.
| The Prisoner of Love | |