My Master and Lord!
I long to do some work, some work for Thee,
I long to bring some lowly gift of love
For all Thy love to me!
The harvest fields are white—
Send me to gather there some scattered ears;
I have no sickle bright; but I can glean,
And bind them in with tears.
I would not choose my work;
The field is Thine, my Father and my Guide:
Send Thou me forth; oh, send me where Thou wilt,
So Thou be glorified!
I need Thy strength, Ο Lord;
I need the quiet heart, the subject will;
I need the patient faith that makes no haste,
The love that follows still.
And if Thou wilt not send,
Then take my will and bend it to Thine own,
Till, in the peace no restless thought can break,
I wait with Thee alone.
It is not hard to wait—
To lean my weariness on Thee for rest:
To feel, in suffering or in service still
My Father’s choice is best.
I said, “It is not hard
And yet—and yet—Father, forgive Thy child,
And through my souls deep tumult let me hear
Thy whisper low and mild.
The darkness is not light,
The “chastening is not joy;” this is Thy word,
Ο Savior, one with us in tears and pain,
Our Jesus and our Lord.
Yet choose Thou still for me
The harvest toil, amid the noonday heat,
Where I may gather fruit that shall not die,
And lay it at Thy feet;
Or the slow, silent hours,
When I must wait, and suffer, and be still,
And in the patience which I learn from
Thee Accept Thy perfect will.