Author: William Henry Monk

Stir me, oh, stir me, Lord, I care not
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
Is filled with strong compassion for these-
Till Thy compelling word drives me to pray;
Till Thy constraining love reach to the
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
Till prayer is joy, till prayer turns into
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

Stir me, oh, stir me, Lord, for I can
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.

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