By George Matheson

      Make me a captive, Lord, and then I shall be free.
      Force me to render up my sword, and I shall conqueror be.
      I sink in life'€™s alarms when by myself I stand;
      Imprison me within Thine arms, and strong shall be my hand.

      My heart is weak and poor until it master find;
      It has no spring of action sure, it varies with the wind.
      It cannot freely move till Thou has wrought its chain;
      Enslave it with Thy matchless love, and deathless it shall reign.

      My power is faint and low till I have learned to serve;
      It lacks the needed fire to glow, it lacks the breeze to nerve.
      It cannot drive the world until itself be driven;
      Its flag can only be unfurled when Thou shalt breathe from heaven.

      My will is not my own till Thou hast made it Thine;
      If it would reach a monarch'€™s throne, it must its crown resign.
      It only stands unbent amid the clashing strife,
      When on Thy bosom it has leant, and found in Thee its life.