1 Make me a captive, Lord,
and then I shall be free;
force me to render up my sword,
and I shall conqueror be.
I sink in life's alarms
when by myself I stand;
imprison me within thine arms,
and strong shall be my hand.

2 My heart is weak and poor
until it master find;
it has no spring of action sure--
it varies with the wind;
it cannot freely move
till thou hast wrought its chain;
enslave it with thy matchless love,
and deathless it shall reign.

3 My will is not my own
till thou hast made it thine;
if it would reach a monarch's throne,
it must its crown resign;
it only stands unbent
amid the clashing strife,
when on thy bosom it has leaned,
and found in thee its life.