In the heart of London City,
Midst the dwellings of the poor,
These bright golden words were uttered,
“I have Christ, what want I more?”
By a lonely dying widow,
Stretched upon a garret floor
Having not one earthly comfort:
“I have Christ, what want I more?”
He who heard them ran to fetch her
Something from this world’s great store;
It was needless—died she saying,
“I have Christ, what want I more?”
But her words will live forever,
I repeat them o’er and o’er;
God delights to hear me saying,
“I have Christ, what want I more?”
Oh, my dear, my fellow-sinner!
High or low, or rich or poor,
Can you say with deep thanksgiving,
“I have Christ, what want I more?”
Oh, thou careless one, unheeding,
Coming wrath and fire in store,
Dark indeed thy doom before thee;
You need Christ, your need is sore.
Haste thee, hide thee, death awaits thee!
Naught but wrath doth lie before,
Unless thou art sweetly boasting,
“I have Christ! What want I more?”
You may have much gold and grandeur,
Yet by God be reckoned poor;
He alone has riches truly,
Who has Christ, though nothing more.
Look away from earth’s attractions,
All earth’s joys will soon be o’er;
Rest not till thy heart exclaimeth—
“I have Christ! What want I more?”