My heart is stirred by a noble theme,
One that dances in me as a dream:
That my King should give one such as I,
Lost soul, skin and bones and breath and eyes;
That He should deem fit to equip then
My carved hand with the weight of a pen;
That He should swirl my breath to form words,
Whether by all or me and Him heard;
All I owe to Him who knows His own—
All I give to Him who lives enthroned.
Who am I?—but you know it counts naught:
Who is He who would count sinners bought?
Noble theme, noble words, noble ode:
He intends to reap what He has sowed.
Creator of the skies! He who saves!
Forgiving o’er the pow’r of the grave!
Let me sing in concert with the stones,
Let my soul sing through this cage of bones!
Soul, do you understand or can you?
Do you comprehend what He’s made true?
I will sing in the rain and sunshine
For life crawls on towards Him. Bread and wine
Are my first tastes of what will commence
When His bride escapes her earthly tents.
Heavy is the burden of patience,
Heavy is the burden of conscience—
Humbly, I take your burden and load
And offer You up this meager ode.