Upon the hem of His pure linen he clung,
Upon the breast of His even rise he lean’t,
Upon the thought of His flowing blood he stayed,
Upon the feet of His lofty figure he bowed,
Upon the beauty of His heavenly face he gazed,
Upon the Word of Life he desperately fed:

For, in his weakness and lowliness,
he saw gracious glimpses of his illness;
and in his inability and lack,
with great praise and great grace,
he saw the bright unending glory of his King,
his Goal,
of that which is to come –
and so needful was he of those glories,
so desperately requiring aid,
that immediately he fell;
and dusty, dirty, dejected, God’s lovely hand picked him up
and gave him life, and gave him love,
and gave him all things good.

Thus that lowly saint, that beggarly saint,
fervently clung and stayed upon His God,
and found, at last, he did,
Great Victory.