Many sit at Jesus' table; Few will fast with Him When the sorrow cup of anguish Trembles to the brim; Few watch with Him in the garden Who have sung the hymn. Many will confess His wisdom; Few embrace His shame; Many, while He smiles upon them, Loud His praise proclaim; Then if for a while He tries them They desert His name. But the souls who love supremely Let woe come or bliss, These will count their dearest heart's blood Not their own, but His. Saviour, Thou who thus hast loved me. Give me love like this. |