Murray slumped into his seat with a sense of exhaustion upon him, and dropped his head upon his shielding hand. The leader in a sweet tenor voice started softly the hymn:
“Have Thine own way, Lord, Have Thine own way!
Thou art the potter, I am the clay:
Mould me and make me after thy will,
While I am waiting yielded and still.”
The many voices took it up and it swept through the room like a prayer, softly, tenderly, the words clear and distinct. Murray had never heard anything like it before.
“Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
Search me and try me, Master, to-day!
Whiter than snow, Lord, Wash me just now,
As in Thy presence humbly I bow.”