W. Nee


OLIVES that have known no pressure

Never can oil bestow;

If the grapes escape the winepress,

Cheering wine can never flow;

Spikenard only through the crushing,

Its fragrance can diffuse.

Shall I then, shrink from the suff’ring

That Thy love would so induce?

Each blow I suffer

Is true gain to me.

In the place of what Thou takest

Thou dost give Thyself to me.


Do my heart-strings need Thy stretching,

Music divine to prove?

Must the sweetest music come from

The harsh treatment of Thy love?

Lord, I fear no deprivation

If I be drawn to Thee;

I would yield in full surrender

All Thy heart of love to see.


I’m ashamed, my Lord, for seeking

Myself to guard alway;

Though Thy love had done its stripping,

Yet I felt compelled Thy way.

Lord, according to Thy pleasure

Complete Thy work in me;

Heeding not my human feelings,

Only do what pleases Thee.


If Thy mind and mine should differ,

Pursue, O Lord, Thy way;

If Thy pleasure means my sorrow,

Still my heart shall answer, “Yea!”

’Tis my deep desire to please Thee,

Though I might suffer loss;

E’en though Thy delight and glory

Mean that I endure the cross.


Oh, I’ll praise Thee, e’en if weeping

Be mingled with my song.

Thine increasing sweetness calls forth

Grateful praises all day long.

Thou hast made Thyself more precious

Than everything to me:

Thou increase and I decrease, Lord—

This is now my only plea.


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