Classic Poem

Stir me, O stir me, Lord, I care not how,
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, O stir me, Lord, till all my heart
Is stirred in strong compassion for these souls,
Till Thy compelling “must” drives me to prayer;
Till Thy constraining love reach to the poles,
Far north and south in burning, deep desire;
Till east and west are caught in love's strong fire.

Stir me, O Lord, Thy heart has 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 back to Thee
That Thou canst give Thyself again through me.

Stir me, O stir me, Lord, for I can see
Thy glorious triumph day begin to break;
The dawn already gilds the eastern sky.
Oh, church of Christ, awake, awake.
Oh, stir us, Lord, as heralds of that day,
The night is past, our King is on His way.