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“I am not moved to love Thee, 0 my Lord, By any longing for Thy Promised Land; Nor by the fear of hell am I unmanned To cease from my transgressing deed or word. Tis Thou Thyself dost move me,—Thy blood poured Upon the cross from nailed foot and hand; And all the wounds that did Thy body brand; And all Thy shame and bitter death's award. Yea, to Thy heart am I so deeply stirred That I would love Thee were no heaven on high,— That I would fear, were hell a tale absurd! Such my desire, all questioning grows vain; Though hope deny me hope I still should sigh, And as ray love is now, it should remain. (To Christ Crucified)” — Thomas Walsh
I am not moved to love Thee, 0 my Lord,
By any longing for Thy Promised Land;
Nor by the fear of hell am I unmanned
To cease from my transgressing deed or word.
Tis Thou Thyself dost move me,—Thy blood poured
Upon the cross from nailed foot and hand;
And all the wounds that did Thy body brand;
And all Thy shame and bitter death's award.
Yea, to Thy heart am I so deeply stirred
That I would love Thee were no heaven on high,—
That I would fear, were hell a tale absurd!
Such my desire, all questioning grows vain;
Though hope deny me hope I still should sigh,
And as ray love is now, it should remain.
(To Christ Crucified)