Oh Lord, whose Word, once sown, revives,
A spark within these emptied lives,
A secret bounty, a set-apart flame,
That calls the lost and speaks their name.
My soul finds rest, my mind is still,
Your perfect blood has paid my will.
Yet flesh rebels, my spirit sways,
A vagrant heart in fleeting days.
I hear Your truth but do not keep,
A shallow well, a root too weak.
I turn my face, yet crave the beam,
Still drawn to grit, to shade, to night.
I kick against the sharpened goads,
His seed now strewn on thorn-clad roads,
Where hunger bends to bitter wine,
And sight is lost in self-made shrine.
Who lifts the mass of bloodless bone?
What voice can shake the grit and bedrock?
Who parts the soul from shackled flesh,
And speaks the word that gives it rest?
Praise God! You bones, though dry and dead,
Shall rise again at what He said!
His grave, our birth, His loss, our gain,
The Lamb once slain now breaks our chains!
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