1 Make me a captive, Lord,
and then I shall be free;
force me to render up my sword,
and I shall conqueror be.
I sink in life's alarms
when by myself I stand;
imprison me within Your arms,
and strong shall be my hand.

2 My heart is weak and poor
until it master find;
it has no spring of action sure —
it varies with the wind.
It cannot freely move,
till You have forged its chain;
enslave it with Your matchless love,
and deathless it shall reign.

3 My power is faint and low
till I have learned to serve;
it lacks the needed fire to glow,
it lacks the breeze to nerve;
it cannot drive the world,
until itself be driven;
its flag can only be unfurled
when You shall breathe from heaven.

4 My will is not my own
until to You it's given;
it must its earthly crown resign
if it would reach to heaven;
it only stands unbent,
amid the clashing strife,
when on Your bosom it has leant,
and found in You its life.