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The Book of Praise.
In vain Thou strugglest to get free,
I never will unloose my hold ; Art Thou the Man that died for me ?
The secret of Thy love unfold. Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know.
Wilt Thou not yet to me reveal
Thy new, unutterable Name ? Tell me, I still beseech Thee, tell:
To know it now, resolved I am : Wrestling, I will not let Thee go, Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know.
'Tis all in vain to hold Thy tongue, Or touch the hollow of my thigh ;
Though every sinew be unstrung, Out of my arms Thou shalt not fly:
Wrestling, I will not let Thee go,
Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know.
What though my shrinking flesh complain, And murmur to contend so long ?
I rise superior to my pain ; When I am weak, then I am strong:
And when my all of strength shall fail,
I shall with the God-Man prevail.
My strength is gone ; my nature dies ;
I sink beneath Thy weighty hand, Faint to revive, and fall to rise ;
I fall, and yet by faith I stand : I stand, and will not let Thee go, Till I Thy Name, Thy Nature know. |
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