Author: William Henry Monk
Stir me, oh, stir me, Lord, I care not
how,
But stir my heart in passion for the world,
Stir me to give, to go, but most to pray;
Stir till the blood-red banner be unfurled
O’er lands that still in heathen darkness lie,
O’er deserts where no cross is lifted high.
Stir me, oh, stir me, Lord, till all my
heart
Is filled with strong compassion for these-
souls;
Till Thy compelling word drives me to pray;
Till Thy constraining love reach to the
poles
Far north and south, in burning deep desire,
Till east and west are caught in love’s
great fire.
Stir me, oh, stir me, Lord, till prayer is
pain,
Till prayer is joy, till prayer turns into
praise;
Stir me, till heart and will and mind, yea, all
Is wholly Thine to use through all the days.
Stir, till I learn to pray exceedingly;
Stir, till I learn to wait expectantly.
Stir me, oh, stir me, Lord, Thy heart
was stirred
By love’s intensest fire, till Thou didst give
Thine only Son, Thy best beloved One,
E’en to the dreadful cross, that I might live.
Stir me to give myself so back to Thee,
That Thou canst give Thyself again through
me.
Stir me, oh, stir me, Lord, for I can
see
Thy glorious triumph-day begin to break;
The dawn already gilds the eastern sky;
Oh, Church of Christ, arise, awake, awake.
Oh! stir us, Lord, as heralds of that day.
For night is past, our King is on His way.
