The High King of heaven betrothed me,
Though I'm a despicable whore,
Made holy though fully unholy,
And bound to Himself evermore.
The voice of the Irish is calling,
I return to the place of my shame,
To make of this people appalling,
A people called after His name.
I cried out to God in my trial,
He rescued me when as a slave,
He kept me from wicked men's wiles,
Preserved me from out of the grave.
My rescue through naught of my doing,
My sustenance naught but His word,
For Him, then, my mission pursuing,
To rescue the lost of this world.
For we are made one although many,
Yes, one in the body of Christ,
I multiply sons of His glory,
By preaching and shining His light.
For from all the world come the faithful,
More diligent, let us proclaim,
That Jesus may make us more fruitful,
More children who call on His name.
I bind myself but to God's power,
His Spirit and strength be my guide,
No slander of men can then sever,
My place in love as Jesus' bride.
Against all corruption's collusion,
Or doings of demonic craft,
In ignorant dark and delusion,
Christ's gospel will conquer at last.
If there is success in my mission,
If benefit comes of my life,
Yet this is my only confession:
It was but a gift of my Christ.
Sermon Poems 