Begone, each earth-born tie and bond,
Begone affection, deep and fond,
That Christ does not partake.
Have I box of alabaster
Which is not broken for the Master,
To which my heart but clings the fastest?
Help me my box to break.
Oh! break, whatever it may be,
That holdeth back my heart from Thee,
Who died my heart to win.
All other love, however dear,
However old, or strong, or near,
Of which Thou art not theme and sphere,
Is only polished sin.
All other love would cease to flow—
But Thine no chill nor change can know,
In spite of ill return.
The source of Thine is not in me—
In what I am, or I can be—
The deep, deep spring is found in Thee—.
It cannot cease to burn.
Upon my callous heart impress
The depth and height of all Thy grace,
That I may love Thee more.
That thou canst call a worm Thy treasure-
That Thou canst find in me Thy pleasure-
Tells of a love which none can measure,
But worship and adore!
J. W. T.