When I stand at the judgment seat of Christ, and He shows me His plan for me— The plan of my life as it might have been had He had His way—and I see How I blocked Him here, and checked Him there and would not yield my will, Shall I see grief in my Savior’s eyes; grief, though He loves me still? He would have me rich, but I stand there poor, stripped of all but His grace— While my memory runs like a hunted thing, down the paths I can’t retrace. Then my desolate heart will well nigh break with tears that I cannot shed. I’ll cover my face with my empty hands and bow my uncrowned head. Now, Lord of the life that’s left to me, I yield it to Thy hand. Take me, make me, mold me, to the pattern Thou hast planned. unknown
Posted on: Sun, 16 Jun 2013 22:22:32 +0000
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