Weary and sick with sin,
And on His shoulders bro’t me,
Back to His fold again,
While angels in His presence sang
Until the courts of Heaven rang.
He washed the bleeding sin wounds,
And poured in oil and wine;
He whispered to assure me,
“I’ve found thee, thou art Mine;”
I never heard a sweeter voice,
It made my aching heart rejoice!
He pointed to the nail prints,
For me His blood was shed,
A mocking crown so thorny,
Was placed upon His head:
I wondered what He saw in me,
To suffer such deep agony.
I’m sitting in His presence,
The sunshine of His face,
While with adoring wonder
His blessings I retrace.
It seems as if eternal days
Are far too short to sound His praise.
So while the hours are passing,
All now is perfect rest;
I’m waiting for the morning,
The brightest and the best,
When He will call us to His side,
To be with Him, His spotless bride.
Oh, the love that sought me!
Oh, the blood that bought me!
Oh, the grace that bro’t me to the fold,
Wondrous grace that bro’t me to the fold!
W. Spencer Walton
Round the never changing pole;
Upward where the sky is brightest,
Upward where the blue is lightest,
Lift I now my longing soul.
Far above that arch of gladness,
Far beyond these clouds of sadness,
Are the many mansions fair.
Far from pain and sin and folly,
In that palace of the holy
I would find my mansion there.
Where the Lamb on high is seated,
By ten thousand voices greeted:
Lord of lords, and King of kings.
Son of man, they crown, they crown him;
Son of God, they own, they own him;
With his name the palace rings.
Blessing, honor, without measure,
Heavenly riches, earthly treasure,
Lay we at his blessed feet.
Poor the praise that now we render,
Loud shall be our voices yonder,
When before his throne we meet.