Ichthus
Help me - oh help me endure.
A touch from your finger-tip, fierce glory, Is enough! All that is darkest in me rises to the surface Of my soul, That which is dross, impure Is borne up on the tide of my lanced love My Lord, my Jesus, for you take me whole To make the hopeless holy. You have harpooned your struggling fish, O Man-God, Master of Seas! It is your net I fear far more than your will's sword, Unvanquished Jesus! It is your net - the stifling shock of shoals hauled asunder, Outpoured as silver at your wounded feet; The terror and glory Is my drop lost already in your ocean. |