This oft-repeated question,
Ο what, what must I do?
Each work I’ve tried is wanting,
Then tell me something new.
The very fact of trying
Reveals how vain the thought,
That aught could for God’s presence fit
Which by these hands were wrought.
Why dost thou ask the question
Since Jesus answerest thee,
The work of God, poor sinner,
Is to believe in Me.
For thee I have all finished,
My Father is well pleased,
And thou hast but to trust Me,
For justice is appeased.
And trusting, thou art one with Me,
My righteousness, thine own,
Thou sharest all My Father’s love,
My kingdom, and My throne.
And I have drained the cup of death,
There’s not a dreg for thee,
Now hast thou only but to yield
Thy ransomed soul to Me.
And now, believer, ‘tis secured
To thee My endless love,
And I would have thee living
As raised with Me above;
That souls may see My image,
My glory all thine aim,
And long to share the perfect rest
In My all-soothing name.
A. M. C
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