I’m just a week-kneed Christian,
So, Lord, don’t ask of me
That I go to the battle front
To do exploits there for Thee.
I like to read of courage
And Christians who make their mark;
But, Lord, that’s surely not for me;
I’m quiet and hate the dark!
I sometimes lie in bed at night,
And it upsets my quiet
To think of heathen far away,
Diseased and drunk in riot.
O Lord, a coward then I feel
As in my bed I sink;
I’d like to sleep, forget it all,
But I just think and think.
I muse on that great final day
When at Thy throne I stand.
With flaming eyes You look at me
And, under great duress,
I see excuses torn from me;
I stand in nakedness
And hear You say, “You called me Lord,”
And did not things I say.
You missed your glorious, great reward,
You toyed your life away.
You did not read and pray aright,
Gave time to eat and drink,
And left the heathen far away
To fall, fall right o’er the brink
Of time, to hell’s eternity
To grope in endless night.
You could have stretched a hand to save,
You could have changed that plight
Less comfort had You had on earth;
Then scores of precious souls
Had got the truth, and by your help
Had reached God’s offered goals.
From all my folly, Lord, I turn,
I’ll do as well as say;
And, from this hour, may all my works
Survive the judgment day.