Poetry: The Young Christian

I cannot give it up
The little world I know,
The innocent delights of youth,
The things I cherish so!
T’is true, I love my Lord
And long to do His will;
But oh, I may enjoy the world
And be a Christian still.

I love the hour of prayer,
I love the hymns of praise,
I love the blessed Word which tells
Of God’s redeeming grace.
But – I am human still,
And while I dwell on earth,
God surely will not grudge the hours
I spend in harmless mirth!

These things belong to youth,
And are its natural right –
My dress, my pastimes and my friends,
The merry and the bright.
My Father’s heart is kind!
He will not count it ill
That my small corner of the world
Should please and hold me still.

And yet – “outside the camp,”
T’was there my Savior died!
It was the world that cast Him forth
And saw Him crucified.
Can I take part with those
Who nailed Him to the tree?
And where His name is never praised,
Is that the place for me?

Nay world! I turn away,
Though thou seem fair and good;
That friendly outstreached hand of thine
Is stained with Jesus’ blood.
If in thy least device
I stoop to take a part,
All unaware, thine influence steals
God’s presence from my heart.

Fairwell – Henceforth my place
Is with the Lamb who died.
My Sovereign! While I have Thy love,
What can I want beside?
Thyself, blest Lord, art now
My ree and loving choice,
In whom, though now I see Thee not,
Believing, I rejoice.