John xvii. 26.
At
the Lord's right hand there are pleasures,
There
are treasures for
evermore--
In
the depths fo Thy glory are treasures,
A
measureless, priceless
store.
O
God, we have shared Thy pleasures,
Thy
treasures of countless
price,
Those
joys that no thought can measure,
For
all are Christ.
That
cup of Thy love and gladness
Has
cheered us along the
road,
Through
ages of sin and of sadness
Partaking
the joys of
God--
Through
Thy Spirit sent down from heaven
Thy
Christ to our hearts is
dear;
The
Spirit who tells of His sweetness
Is
with us here.
Thus
false though our hearts and faithless,
We
love Him with love
divine--
With
a love that is true and scatheless,
For
it is not ours, but
Thine.
Thy
love from our hearts outflowing,
Its
source in the Heavens
above,
That
love of Thine own bestowing
Eternal
love.
O
God, with Thy love we love Him,
And
thus are our praises
sweet,
A
fragrance that fills the heavens,
As
we fall before His
feet.
Our
God, of Thine own we give Thee,
And
Thine is the golden
store--
What
are we that we thus can offer,
Can
thus adore!
Our
heart and our flesh may fail us,
And
the mists of sin may
rise;
They
may hide the land of the glory
From
our faithless wandering
eyes;
But
the Spirit within us fails not
For
ever to tell of
Him;
And
His Face is seen in its beauty
When
all is dim.
In
the dungeons and in the deserts
Have
Thy saints by the world
despised,
With
joy untold and unmeasured,
Looked
on the Face of
Christ.
In
the torture or in the fire,
'Midst
the scorn and the hate of
men,
They
have seen but the light of His presence
Around
them then.
O
Lord, we adore and we bless Thee,
That
we in Thy hands of
might
Are
the chords wereupon Thou makest
The
music of Thy
delight;
Whereon
Thou wilt sound for ever
In
wondrous and glorious
tone,
The
name of Thy Son belovèd
His
name alone.
What
recks it that cold and worthless
And
wayworn my heart may
be,
If
the love that came down from heaven
Flows
back to the Lord from
me?
A
glorious tide of worship,
Unsilenced
by sin and by
death,
Sweet
melody made in the cornet,
By
God's own breath.
T. P.
