Phil. ii. 13.
Thou sayest, "Fit
me, fashion me for Thee."
Stretch
forth thine empty hands, and be thou still;
O restless soul,
thou dost but hinder Me
By
valiant purpose and by steadfast will.
Behold the summer
flowers beneath the sun,
In
stillness his great glory they behold;
And sweetly thus
his mighty work is done,
And
resting in his gladness they unfold.
So are the
sweetness and the joy divine
Thine, O
belovèd, and the work is Mine.
