THE flower is naught; the Man I need,
The Man with all His grief and pain,
My Lord, my Substitute indeed,
The Son, the Lamb of God once slain.
His death it is that opens heaven,
It is His blood that gives me peace;
Thrice blest, who finds his sins forgiven,
Because He died for our release.
To Him, the Holy, came the woe,
To me, the guilty, comes the bliss;
Before the fire that brought Him low,
God says: Lo, He thy Saviour is.
From ignominy glory springs,
Love springeth from His pierced heart,
Near which (to this my spirit clings)
I am to have my blessed part.
P.C.
Translated from the French by R. B.
A Long tong may slay a strong man.