Scripture Verse

Neither is he that planteth any thing, neither he that watereth; but God that giveth the increase. 1 Corinthians 3:7


Words: Georg­i­a­na M. Tay­lor, 1869.

Music: R. George Halls, ar­ranged by Phi­lip P. Bliss (🔊 pdf nwc).

If you know where to get a good pho­to of Halls (head-and-shoul­ders, at least 200×300 pix­els), or a bet­ter one of Tay­lor, would you ?

Georgiana M. Taylor

Miss Tay­lor writes me:

The idea for the hymn came in­to my mind through read­ing of the ex­pres­sion, Oh, to be no­thing, in a vol­ume of an old mag­a­zine. I think it oc­curred in an­ec­dote about an ag­ed Chris­tian work­er. At all ev­ents the words haunt­ed me; I mused on their mean­ing, and the hymn was the out­come.

Some one mis­in­ter­pret­ed the true mean­ing of the hymn, and has wri­tten an­oth­er one en­ti­tled, Oh, to be some­thing. But it is not in ac­cord­ance with the Mas­ter, who made him­self no­thing; nor is it in the spir­it of the text which says that he that abas­eth him­self shall in due time be ex­alt­ed.

This hymn was much used as a so­lo in our meet­ings in Great Bri­tain.

Sankey, p. 208


Oh, to be nothing, nothing,
Only to lie at His feet,
A broken and emptied vessel,
For the Master’s use made meet.
Emptied that He might fill me
As forth to His service I go;
Broken, that so unhindered,
His life through me might show.


Oh, to be nothing, nothing,
Only to lie at His feet,
A broken and emptied vessel,
For the Master’s use made meet.

Oh, to be nothing, nothing,
An arrow hid in His hand;
A messenger at His gateway,
Only waiting for His command;
Only an instrument, ready
For Him to use at His will,
And willing, should He not require me,
In patience to wait on Him still.


Oh, to be nothing, nothing,
Though painful the humbling be,
Yet low in the dust I’d lay me
That the world might my Savior see.
Rather be nothing, nothing,
To Him let our voices be raised,
He is the Foun­tain of blessing,
He only is meet to be praised.


Yet e’en as my pleading rises,
A voice seems with mine to blend,
And whispers, in loving accents,
I call thee not servant, but friend;
Fellow-worker with Me I call thee,
Sharing My sorrow and joy—
Fellow-heir to the glory I have above,
The treasure without alloy.


Oh! love so free, so boundless!
Which, lifting me, lays me lower
At the footstool of Jesus, my risen Lord,
To worship and adore—
Which fills me with deeper longing
To have nothing dividing my heart,
My all given up to Jesus,
Not keeping back a part.


Thine may I be, Thine only,
Till called by Thee to share
The glorious heavenly mansions
Thou art gone before to prepare;
My heart and soul are yearning
To see Thee face to face,
With unfettered tongue to praise Thee
For such heights and depths of grace.