My Song Is Love Unknown

If we confess our sins, he who is faithful and just will forgive us our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

     ~ I John 1:9
The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives.  
     ~ Albert Schweitzer
Yesterday in church I witnessed a conversation between  members of our congregation.  All three are cancer survivors.  All have survived against all odds.  All have battled against several bouts of chemo therapy.  The are there as often as the physically can be.  One is a grandfather who brings his grandson to church and puts feet on his words, one is a “newlywed” at a later stage in his life, one is a retired librarian.  They stood encouraging one another, smiling at one another, laughing with one another.  They are keeping what is alive in them vital, fed and healthy.  This all occurred after the service.  A service that was so Spirit filled I thought we Presbyterians would fly away.  I managed to hold it together through the entire service until the last hymn.  Then the text of that hymn tore away all my reserve.  I just put my hymnal down and let the Spirit do its work.  I share that with you this morning, and bid you fortitude as you face this holiest of weeks.
My Song is Love Unknown

My song is love unknown,
My Savior’s love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
O who am I, that for my sake
My Lord should take, frail flesh and die?

He came from His blest throne
Salvation to bestow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed for Christ would know:
But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.

Sometimes they strew His way,
And His sweet praises sing;
Resounding all the day
Hosannas to their King:
Then “Crucify!” is all their breath,
And for His death they thirst and cry.

Why, what hath my Lord done?
What makes this rage and spite?
He made the lame to run,
He gave the blind their sight,
Sweet injuries! Yet they at these
Themselves displease, and ’gainst Him rise.

They rise and needs will have
My dear Lord made away;
A murderer they saved,
The Prince of life they slay,
Yet cheerful He to suffering goes,
That He His foes from thence might free.

In life, no house, no home
My Lord on earth might have;
In death no friendly tomb
But what a stranger gave.
What may I say? Heav’n was His home;
But mine the tomb wherein He lay.

Here might I stay and sing,
No story so divine;
Never was love, dear King!
Never was grief like Thine.
This is my Friend, in Whose sweet praise
I all my days could gladly spend.

Because of Him,

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