Thy blood was spilt
From death to set us free;
Ask what Thou wilt,
'Tis consecrate to Thee!
Thy hands and feet
For us the nails went through.
What is most meet,
Bid ours for Thee to do.
Ask what Thou wilt.
All round Thy Brows
The Throne of Heavenly thought,
Divine Wisdom's house--
For us the thorns were wrought;
Therefore, though dust
In balance with Thy pains,
Take Thou, in trust,
The travail of our brains!
Ask what Thou wilt.
Thy Heart of Love
With all its human aches,
By the spear's proof,
Was broken for our sakes;
Our hearts, therefore,
And all we love and own
Are ours no more,
But Thine and Thine alone.
Ask what Thou wilt.
Though homes be riven,
At Thy supreme behest,
Yea! the sword driven
Through many a mother's breast;
Thy blood was spilt
From death to set us free;
Ask what Thou wilt
'Tis consecrate to Thee.
Ask what Thou wilt.
Printed at the Complete Press
West Norwood
London