Mold Me Lord

When I stand at the judgment seat of ChristAnd He shows me His plan for me;The plan of my life as it might have beenHad He had His way, and I seeHow I blocked Him here and I checked Him thereAnd I would not yield my will,Shall I see grief in my Savior's eyes;Grief though He loves me still?

Oh, He'd have me rich, and I stand there poor,Stripped of all but His grace,While my memory runs like a hunted thingDown the paths I can't retrace.Then my desolate heart will well-nigh breakWith tears that I cannot shed.I'll cover my face with my empty hands And bow my uncrowned head.

No. Lord of the years that are left to meI yield them to Thy hand.Take me, make me, mold meTo the pattern Thou hast planned.