1 Make me a captive, Lord,
and then I shall be free;
force me to render up my sword,
and I shall conquer'r be.
I sink in life's alarms
when by myself I stand;
imprison me within your arms,
and strong shall be my hand.

2 My pow'r is faint and low
till I have learned to serve;
it lacks the needed fire to glow,
it lacks the breeze to nerve;
it cannot drive the world
until itself be driv'n;
its flag can only be unfurled
when you shall breathe from heav'n.

3 My heart is weak and poor
until it master find;
it has no spring of action sure,
it varies with the wind.
It cannot freely move
till you have wrought its chain;
enslave it with your matchless love,
and deathless it shall reign.