The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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January 30
VICARIOUS SUFFERING |
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 | The Prisoner of Love |  |
35
January 30 VICARIOUS SUFFERING
“Who now rejoice in my sufferings for you, and fill up that
which is behind of the afflictions of Christ in my flesh for
his body's sake, which is the church.”—Col. i. 24.
Jesu, my Lord and Life, the Master,
If any wounds are aimed at Thee
That Thou wilt let my blindness see;
Be those my portion—may disaster
That were a brother's, fall on me.
Though sore my dread when winds grow rougher,
Make me not safe, but for Thee suffer.
If any wounds are aimed at Thee
That Thou wilt let my blindness see;
Be those my portion—may disaster
That were a brother's, fall on me.
Though sore my dread when winds grow rougher,
Make me not safe, but for Thee suffer.
I am a child in faith and humble,
Do Thou uphold me with Thy Hand
To bear instead my fellow's brand,
And prop his steps that else might stumble.
Bruise me below, that he may stand;
I am not brave, I flinch from losses—
But grant me, Lord, Thine empty Crosses.
Do Thou uphold me with Thy Hand
To bear instead my fellow's brand,
And prop his steps that else might stumble.
Bruise me below, that he may stand;
I am not brave, I flinch from losses—
But grant me, Lord, Thine empty Crosses.
My work is poor, I claim no merit
Except that I am only Thine
And with Thy splendour feebly shine;
But while so poor, I do inherit
All riches in Thy Grace Divine.
I seek no more than what is given,
To find in Thee myself—my Heaven.
Except that I am only Thine
And with Thy splendour feebly shine;
But while so poor, I do inherit
All riches in Thy Grace Divine.
I seek no more than what is given,
To find in Thee myself—my Heaven.
36
In Thy vast vineyard there are corners
Without a labourer, or the light
Of love to make them large and bright;
The Saints are few, and many scorners,
Yet sow me there although in night;
And should there be some grave for filling,
If that Thy will be, I am willing.
Without a labourer, or the light
Of love to make them large and bright;
The Saints are few, and many scorners,
Yet sow me there although in night;
And should there be some grave for filling,
If that Thy will be, I am willing.
| The Prisoner of Love | |