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 till it a master find;
It has no spring of action sure-it varies with the wind.
It cannot freely move till Thou hast wrought its chain;
Enslave it with Thy matchless love, and deathless it shall reign.

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 as leant and found in Thee its life.