Begone, each earth-born tie
and bond,
Begone affection, deep
and fond,
That Christ does not
partake.
Have I a box of
alabaster Which is not
broken for the Master,
To which my heart but
clings the faster?
Help me my box to break.
Oh! break, whatever it may
be,
That holdeth back my
heart from Thee,
Who died my heart to win.
All other love, however
dear,
However old, or
strong, or near,
Of which Thou art
not theme and sphere,
Is only polished sin.
All other love would cease
to flow—
But
Thine no chill nor
change can know,
In spite of ill return.
The source of Thine is
not in me—
In what I am, or I can
be—
The deep, deep spring
is found in Thee
It cannot cease to burn.
Upon my callous heart
impress
The depth and
height of all Thy grace,
That I may love Thee more.
That Thou canst call a
worm Thy treasure—
That Thou canst find in
me thy pleasure—
Tells of
a love which none can
measure,
But worship and adore!