Will I search till eyes grow dim,
And back is bent and arms are weak?
Will I find my hope in Him,
Or travel past for what I seek?
Will that first redeeming love
Keep it’s root till I grow old?
Or will I die a poor sad man
In his silence growing cold?
Let He who first begun the work
Do His bidding in my soul
And let the fire burn the straw
That what is left may keep me whole.