1 Make me a captive, Lord,
and then I shall be free;
force me to render up my sword,
and I shall conqu'ror be.
I sink in life's alarms
when by myself I stand;
imprison me within Thine 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 Thou has wrought its chain;
enslave it with Thy matchless love,
and deathless it shall reign.

3 My pow'r is faint and low
till I have learned to serve;
it wants the needed fire to glow,
it wants the breeze to nerve.
It cannot drive the world
until itself be driv'n;
it flag can only be unfurled
when Thou shalt breathe from heav'n.

4 My will is not my own
till Thou has made it Thine;
if it would reach a monarch's throne,
it must its crown resign.
It only stands unbent
amid the classing strife,
when on Thy bosom it has leant
and found in Thee its life.