The Prisoner of Love By F. W. Orde Ward (F. Harald Wiliams) |
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February 20
THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS |
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The Prisoner of Love | ||
59
February 20 THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS
“All day long I have stretched forth my hands unto a disobedient
and gainsaying people.”—Rom. x. 21.
Tell me the land where my Love dwelleth not;
There is no little spot,
Which from His altar doth not gather grace
(Some feature of God's Face)
And burn with reflex Glory; let it shine,
Till earth is all Divine,
And not one sinner wears a meaner dress
Than the white robe of Christ's own Righteousness.
There is no little spot,
Which from His altar doth not gather grace
(Some feature of God's Face)
And burn with reflex Glory; let it shine,
Till earth is all Divine,
And not one sinner wears a meaner dress
Than the white robe of Christ's own Righteousness.
Tell me the life where my Love suffers not
His crucifying lot,
And bears not still His beautiful dread load
Along our human road.
Ah, there is no least nook, however dim,
With sorrow not for Him;
No agony of others, not to be
Another garden of Gethsemane.
His crucifying lot,
And bears not still His beautiful dread load
Along our human road.
Ah, there is no least nook, however dim,
With sorrow not for Him;
No agony of others, not to be
Another garden of Gethsemane.
Tell me the heart where my Love hometh not—
Who would cleanse every spot;
O yet outside He standeth at the door,
To sweep the darkened floor,
And with His Blood to wash away each sin
That He may dwell within;
The earth is sick with waiting, till He come
To bring His brothers to His Heart and Home.
Who would cleanse every spot;
O yet outside He standeth at the door,
To sweep the darkened floor,
And with His Blood to wash away each sin
That He may dwell within;
The earth is sick with waiting, till He come
To bring His brothers to His Heart and Home.
The Prisoner of Love | ||